


The Rosetta Turn

by Fangirlinit



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Universe, Archaeology, F/F, History
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 17:39:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 92,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3538286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangirlinit/pseuds/Fangirlinit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A solid bond between Myka and H.G. turns to something more after they are whisked away to a secret government facility and the adventure it demands. Can their friendship weather the secrets, lies, and unforeseen romance they are faced with?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Of all possessions a friend is the most precious.  
_ Herodotus

* * *

“I hate my job,” Myka said, head bowed and hunched over coffee.

“I imagine that is not entirely true.”

“Oh, no. I mean I…” she widened her eyes to express the enormity of her situation, “ _hate_ my job. There’s no point in looking forward to tenure when everything that has got me to this point has all but given me a migraine induced coma. My colleagues ignore me, my students don’t care, and that proposal to continue my independent research in Egypt? The board won’t grant me permission. Can you believe that?”

“Not at all!” Emily agreed scandalously. She waved a hand superfluously. “What does it matter you would be dropped in the middle of a revolution?”

“Right? I mean, I am a professional – nay, an academic! No one would shoot an innocent college professor with interest in unveiling the hidden treasures of Egyptian cultural heritage.”

Emily cocked her head. “Especially an American.”

“Exac –“ Myka cut herself off. “Wait, you’re humoring me, aren’t you?”

The narrowed eyes and mock affront of her friend produced a chuckle from Emily. “Myka, you are the most intelligent individual I have the pleasure of knowing; however, your skills at human perception are lacking. Unfortunately.”

“Way to break the news,” Myka scoffed lightly, sipping her Americano. “I still hate my job.”

Emily brought her cup of gunpowder sweetened with a drizzle of honey to her lips. She shrugged. “So choose another one.”

“If all things were that easy, Emily, how would the human race co-exist?”

“Oh,” Emily raised her mug up as if to toast to the gods themselves, “how I adore these philosophical discussions!”

"The barista is still staring at us; I think it is pretty safe to assume our lively debates are only appreciated by those around this table."

“And what lovely company this table brings.” To prove her point, Emily took the unengaged hand in hers and brought their joined contribution to the center of the table.  

A deep red rose to Myka’s cheeks. She grinned and examined the patterned flooring.

The barista came to liberate their empty lunch plates and offered to freshen up their drinks.

“That would be great, Frank,” Myka replied, still hand-in-hand with Emily, “thanks.”

Frank, the head barista and most superior American bon vivant of tea Emily had come across, nodded. He smiled at their hands (a common display of affection seen those past few weeks) before heading back to the counter.  

“So, before Mr. Knowledgeable of 423 Modern Clonal Varieties and Strains of the Tea Leaf comes back for refills let’s return to the subject at hand.”

“Myka, you’re not jealous are you?”

“Is that what it sounded like? Because I’m not.” An uneasy smile crept up before Myka shook her head and gave a one shoulder shrug. “He’s kind of presumptuous.”

“He is sweet,” Emily insisted. “It also says a great deal about an American who knows the proper steep time for all varieties of tea.”

“All of a sudden I’m feeling a surge of inadequacy.”

Emily’s nose crinkled to the notion.

The scuffing of shoes indicated Frank’s return. Myka immediately leaned back in her chair, taking her hand back to stuff under her arm in a display of indifference.

Frank took her folded arms with a dazzling smile and a “Here you go!” Her second Americano was placed before her. “And I didn’t forget about you, Miss Lake,” he said as a cup of golden tea was deposited, steaming, on the table.

Myka never neglected to catch its perfect wisps of steam rising, probably sweetened with the right quantity of honey – just as Emily liked. Chewing the inside of her cheek, it took a great deal not to glare in her server’s direction.

“This second round is on the house. It’s not _every_ day my humble café gets the business of two fine women – a charming couple, no less!”

“Presumptuous,” Myka mouthed across the table.

There was a scolding look from Emily, though she couldn’t hold back the twinkle in her eye. “That is very kind of you, dear Frank,” Emily said smoothly with a tip of her head. Her finger slipped into the handle of her tea to raise it. “We shall toast this round to your health.”

“Not to _my_ health, dear Miss Lake!” Frank held and hand to his heart as Myka rolled her eyes. “To your own for I would hate to lose my two favorite customers to illness!”

Myka threw in with a megawatt smile, “Spoken like a true capitalist.”

Oblivious, uneducated Frank laughed despite Myka’s sincerity. He exited none too soon for her liking.

Emily raised a fine brow. “And you call yourself inadequate.”

“You just said he was sweet!”

“He is,” Emily inclined, “though not possessing of sound mind I prefer to cavort about with.”

Myka chuckled into her coffee muttering, “Cheeky Brit.”

“Don’t think you can pigeon hole me, Dr. Bering,” Emily warned with a smirk. She tossed back her hair, threw an arm about the back of her chair, and crossed her legs in the only way she knew how: strappingly yet memorably regal. “Back to the business as hand: You hate your profession – or to put it more accurately… you _presume_ to hate your profession.”

“You mistake job for profession.”

“Do they not mean the same thing?”

“In my case, I like my profession. Hellenistic and Roman Egyptian history has been my specialty for years. The act of carrying on knowledge to those that desire it brings me insurmountable joy. Profession has nothing to do with money – at least not to me. My job is what I hate. The day in and day out monotonous paperwork, the stifling lecture halls and apathetic students that fill them. Not to mention the crappy pay, insufficient grants, and the colleagues who seem to think their work is more superior to mine. That is where my job-related hatred comes from.”

“So quit. Exercise your profession in some other capacity.”

“This coming from the high school physics teacher who just wants to move to Europe and write novels?”

“We are not talking about my dreams now, are we?” Emily raised a brow that Myka had been trained to heed. “If you are not happy, Myka, you must do something about it.”

“Oh,” the brunette professor, apparently a bit startled by the assertion, quickly contended, “No… I’m happy.”

A pair of brows furrowed to the weak smile. “Now I am confused.”

“Yeah, I’m not explaining very well. And I call myself a professor,” she joked. Myka drew a deep breath and started, “You know how everyone says you have two lives, your job and your personal life? And other people just have their work and that’s it. Well, I used to be that way. My job was my life and any joy I wanted had to stem from that. But now… that’s not so much true.” Bypassing the specifics, Myka bit her lip in the hopes Emily would understand her meaning. “Here I’m okay. When I’m with my friend… it makes me happy.”

“I see.” A haughty grin graced Emily’s face, making her lunch partner blush. She grinned wider as Myka’s eyes roamed anywhere that wouldn’t be staring back with… approval. “Though I do not make a habit of declaring confidential data on the seventh encounter I am compelled to say the feeling is mutual.”

“Conf - ? Confidential data?” Myka fumbled out with a stretching smile. “Well, if I had known you were this romantic, Emily Lake, my coffee would have found itself in your lap much sooner than it did last month.”

Emily’s eyes flickered under darkness. Her breath stalled.

“And to think,” Myka continued, “a bemused, eccentric woman like you would continue counting after three.”

The claim and the giggle that could only come from Myka and Myka alone dashed the thoughts from Emily and sent them back to the caged domain of her mind. “And to think you thought so highly of me,” she mocked, chuckling. “I have had a number in mind ever since I clapped eyes on you –after you so humbly gave my novel a good soaking. And until we reach that magic digit I will continue to tally these adventures.” Leaning forward on her elbows, chin settled atop overlaying hands, Emily tested with a purr, “I cannot be stopped, Dr. Bering.”

An icy chill ran up Myka’s spine, but not long enough for it to melt into a liquid heat dripping down the curve of her back. The warmth settled and grew heavy with the humming voice of her challenger.

* * *

The establishment elegantly known as Frank’s Café was just a few blocks from the waterfront in downtown Chicago. Most of the building was brick, but who could say under all the décor. A disturbing collection leapt from the walls in the form of African tribal masks, voodoo dolls, Native American spears, and, Myka would gather from her interest in historically inaccurate films, various Trojan War shields.

The green upholstered booth cushions smelled of leather, a ‘great’ combination with the scent of brewing coffee. Tables were unstable, but generally upright. Chairs creaked and floors groaned underfoot creating a musical symphony with every step in one direction or another. No one dared sit in the corner rocking chair for it moved of its own accord by some incorporeal feat. On the off chance that a tourist plunked their sorry behind on it the framed artistic depictions of demonic possession and exorcism would catch the eye and send them bolting from the café entirely. Said chair was probably haunted. It was just one of those places that had yet to make up its mind as to what it wanted to be. The only thing it managed to accomplish was attracting a dependable if not off-beat clientele.  

Though not possessing the feat of tickling Myka Bering’s taste buds with its no olives, no feta Greek salad and mightily well done croutons, Frank’s was not a hot spot for collegiates. It also did not attract the likes of affluent professors who turned their nose up at institutions suffering from severe identity crisis. Such neutrality made it Myka’s favorite place to get some work done.

A month preceding the seventh run in and the debate on Frank the Presumptuous, Myka was walking between tables, juggling books, unworthy thesis proposals, and a gargantuan sized Americano. A misstep on one of the many unruly floor tiles sent a hot spill on the open pages of a novel belonging to one “Emily Lake.” Shaking her clumsiness with several apologies Myka’s hand was stopped by the stranger’s and plucked up from the drenched pages of _Candida_. Emily’s first remark in her smooth, posh British accent was the insistence that “it was rubbish anyway.” A connection was made right away, in Myka’s case when the stranger first opened her mouth and in Emily’s when green eyes revealed themselves.

Introductions were made, awkward glances none too subtly avoided, and common interests were discovered instantly. One refill of Americano and two Greek salads later they were exchanging contact information with the hopes to “bump” into one another soon (preferably without the coffee/book fatalities).

The meet-cute was, for Myka, a chance to experience life outside her work. Emily was a charming escape from her unrewarding life as professor. Emily was dashing (if a woman could be described as such). Her bearing oozed confidence, but none that, with the exception of a blush or two, could ever deter Myka. A beautiful countenance was not mistaken for a weak mind. Emily was quick witted and possessed an extensive vocabulary with the inclusion of a few slang profanities from her native land. For only a bachelor’s educated teacher she certainly held up her own against the post-doctorate brunette – in and outside the realm of academia. Debates ranged from the British Museum’s legal titles over the Parthenon Structures to whether or not it really was blasphemy to serve parmesan cheese in a Greek salad. “It is all Greek to me,” argued Emily with cheek that allowed Myka to relinquish victory over that dispute.

Emily was in every sense of the word magnetizing. Every thought put to words was taken with a fascination Myka had never felt before. Plain and simple: Emily was _interesting_ – the most interesting individual she had ever known. She longed to hear the woman’s opinions, her aversions and attractions, the most random thoughts that struck her at the most random times. Emily was magnetizing also in more physical ways. Every breath she took Myka felt herself leaning in, drawn to a quirk or a twist of mouth. Her glowing complexion and swirling brown eyes sparked a curiosity and a pleasant fire.

The meeting was, for Emily, the best possible opportunity to shirk _Candida_ for stimulating conversation and company anyone with a keen sense of inner beauty couldn’t wag their finger at. Myka did indeed have inner beauty while she was visually stunning as well. Dark straightened locks fell around a soft, kind face that could be immortalized in marble and lived out its eternity within the walls of the Graeco-Roman Museum of Alexandria. But no splendor should be kept behind closed doors or on display for stuffy tourists. Emily wouldn’t have it.

Myka was a beauty with a lion heart and a mind of her own. No sculpture, much less those colleagues of hers, could compare. No one could outdo her riotous laugh, her limitless aptitude. No one could take Emily’s breath away just by holding eyes with hers, if only for a second. The sound of her voice, the touch of her hand, it was enough to capture her heart, ignite a flame, all those clichés from Victorian novels Emily used to shake her fist at. Idiosyncrasies meant nothing until Emily locked eyes with Myka.

Almost immediately she began to understand the stranger’s penchant for rambling, apologizing, and laughing over the tension. Myka’s laugh was a healing one, so if it succeeded in putting her at ease it put Emily at ease, too. Emily had never before perceived an individual like she did Myka. She memorized certain cues in order to anticipate her moods or an innocent change in subject. A nibble at her bottom lip, a flip of her hair, the way her eyes diverted bashfully were all locked away in Emily’s memory for the present, for later, perhaps forever.

Both had jobs that called for their constant attention; however, ever since that day an uneven tile instigated a sodden copy of _Candida_ Myka and Emily couldn’t go a day without hearing from each other. Taking calls was not ideal in the middle of a classroom setting, so texting was the next best thing. Emily suffered through only a few close calls, once when Andrew Carmichael stopped in the middle of his speech to ask her why she was smiling into her lap and another case when Judy Gilbert snapped her fingers to get her otherwise preoccupied teacher’s attention. Because Myka’s students couldn’t care less about her lessons much less who she was texting, there were no obstacles in her way of carrying a flirtatious and heated debate on Russian psychological realism.

But their relationship was not based solely on academics. They talked only briefly of their pasts; general particulars about parents, siblings, pets, the occasional romance that ended before it began, where they grew up, what schools they attended, and how they arrived to where they are now. Most of all they discussed their future – not _their_ future because they were neither presumptuous like Frank nor had their friendship reached the stage for the subject to arise – as individuals.

Emily never went into great detail, but the way she talked about Paris, Rome, Amsterdam and all the little towns in between convinced Myka that the world really was this woman’s oyster. She longed for adventure and the thrill of finding new places and the treasures hidden there. Emily was a writer, fiction because world building and painting the unforeseeable future was just one of her literary strengths. To do so she had to immerse herself along the finest streets and the furthest back alleys of Europe – places that drew the most paramount of artists in their search for inspiration.

Myka longed for a similar getaway, maybe not as permanent as Emily suggested but to the same Europe that was the source of their wildest dreams. Growing up in rural Colorado, Myka was no stranger to the fantasy of leaving home for adventure. As a child she would gaze outside her window, imagining the pyramids rising from her dusty backyard or crawl under the bleachers during her sister’s soccer game like a female Indiana Jones would through the crypts beneath Notre Dame. Though she had taken a travel study to Greece during her junior year of college, Myka had since only gone as far as Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania to earn her MA.

The physical side of their relationship was strictly platonic. That did not mean there was room for subtle touches, a hand graze here, a second-too-long stare there. They held hands occasionally for comfort or reassurance. Neither possessed expectations because they were so comfortable with their rapport as friends. They didn’t think to dream of what could come from more of those coffee meet-ups. They didn’t consider the opportunity to take up hand holding a little longer or secure Frank’s insinuations to heart. They never thought what they had could mean more. Never when it was already subconsciously believed.

* * *

There was a cheery jingle as the door to Frank’s Café opened to the ladies’ departure. As per their usual itinerary, lunch was followed by a stroll to the park where they would skirt discussion for quiet company. They enjoyed the comfortable silence, the sunshine, nature, and the extraordinary humdrum of passersby with their leashed dogs.

A long brown jacket flapped in the Chicago breeze when they turned a corner. Shivering to the autumn chill, Emily looped her arm in the professor’s as a gentleman would a lady’s. Myka, hands stuffed suitably in her coat pockets, smiled at the concrete passing under their booted feet. Though cold on the outside their blood pumped warm and excitedly beneath the surface, hearts beating hale and hearty behind weakening walls.

“So,” Emily drawled against the wind, “where exactly does this aggravation towards your students stem from? You are such a patient, charismatic woman; I find it hard to believe you do not connect with them on that teacher/student level.”

“I used to think college students took a course because they wanted to, not because they had to. Half my students stare at the wall like it holds Vatican secrets to the Library of Alexandria,” Myka grumbled and then shrugged a shoulder indifferently, “or the location of the next big kegger.”

“Have you reached that chapter on Alexandria, yet?” Emily asked off-handedly.

“No, that’s next week. We’ll see how spellbinding those walls look after I’ve finished my lecture on the trials and tribulations of Ptolemy II’s legacy.”

“Oh, I do so hope I am able to sit in on that lecture.”

Myka chuckled. “If it gets me at least one attentive listener then I can slip you a visitor’s pass.”

“No, no, I just want the satisfaction of creeping up on one of those daydreamers and giving their ear a good flick.”

Not that she hadn’t thought about it herself, Myka inclined her head and responded, “That would be called harassment.”

“Oh,” Emily made a face, “pish posh. Sister Margareta had no qualms about cracking me across the hand.”

Myka glanced over with a wry smile. “What did you do?”

“That’s not the point,” Emily waved her hand. “The point is, not all pupils have your thirst for knowledge, nor do they possess your ambition.”

“I would much rather prefer active adults who at least pretend to humor me in discussion.”

Though she knew the answer Emily asked anyway. “So you wouldn’t like teaching children?” Her eyes squinted in the sunshine, mouth twisting a smirk.

Myka wrinkled her nose at the thought of temper tantrums, snack time, and even teenage hormones. “Not my cup of tea, no offense. My social circle doesn’t exactly call for engaging with people under the age of 21.”

Taking a deep breath and nodding, Emily steered them into the fenced park. The heels of their boots sank into the damp soil from yesterday’s rainfall. For a Wednesday afternoon the park was a mass of activity. Dogs barked and chased everything that moved, children squealed and laughed on the playground, old couples watched and reminisced from their benches, while truant teenagers remained glued to their laptops.

“I apologize if you feel pushed by my incessant inquiry about your students.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Myka assured. “You’ve held up your fair share of questioning from me. If you want to know something about me I’m happy to oblige.”

“I just had to know before…”

“Before what, Emily?”

Emily took pains to hide the shiver. Desperate to shock life into the numbness she took her hand from around Myka’s arm and wrung it with the other. Turning over and over, her hands made an anxious motion Emily was not aware of. Too many thoughts, too many plaguing fears prevented her from attending to outside stimuli. The only thing that could break through that concrete thick wall was the voice of a dark-haired beauty sporting a pair of dated aviators.

The disquiet was starting to eat away at Myka’s patience. And she was a very patient person. “Emily?”

Another shiver. Her smile was too stubborn to reach her eyes.

“Myka,” Emily’s voice cracked but did not break completely, “I feel I have been taking advantage of your loyalty. I have not been completely honest, and I mean to make up for that. Even in light of your recent… statements about your students, I still hope there is room to make alterations.”

The longer she talked the more flustered she looked. At the end of her speech she just nodded firmly (to herself it seemed) and motioned for a frowning Myka to follow.

Not far off a young girl brushed her knees after a journey down the slide. The sides of her long silken black hair were tied back with a bow and bouncing to her skips. Spotting the equally raven-haired woman, she made a detour from the monkey bars towards them.

“Mummy!” she cried, a beaming smile on her face.

Though slightly taller than most her age, she dove into her mother’s waiting arms. She wrapped hands about the brown jacket, burying her face in the blouse that smelled of lavender, ink, and the stale pages of an old book. To the girl, it smelled like home.

Using the girl’s momentum, Emily spun them in circles above the dewy grass. “My Christina,” she greeted lovingly. Their giggles rose above the barking dogs before their welcome hug slowed and Emily set the smiling child down.

“Christina, there is someone I would like to introduce you to.” Emily took her hand and walked them over to the brunette. “She’s a very good friend of mine.”

Myka blinked, tilted her head, and then blinked again. The resemblance was uncanny. Their brilliant smiles were so identical it was as if the girl was a flashback of young Emily herself. Hair carried a soft sheen, tumbling over their shoulders, eyes were keenly attentive, their skin a pale yet unblemished quality. Just by looking at them Myka could see where this Christina inherited her poised temperament. Every detail in her stride – the raised chin and haughty smirk came from her mother. Despite the overwhelming shock setting in Myka felt her lips tugging in a smile.

“Myka, this is Christina, my daughter.”

“Christina _Lake_ ,” the child corrected, raising her chin further.

Emily chuckled. “Well, _Miss Lake_ , this lovely woman here is Myka Bering. She is a professor at the university.”

“You are a teacher as well?” surged Christina. She stuck out her hand. “How do you do?”

Mouth parting and then closing in a characteristic sign Emily knew to be apprehension, Myka gave a breathy chuckle and took the hand. “Very well,” she answered, “thank you. And you?”

What Myka didn’t expect was strict candor. Then again, she was the daughter of Emily Lake.

Christina cast a glance to Myka, then her mother and back again. “Not fine, unfortunately. One would think to assume a bit of freedom at a park, but I am on constant watch by my sitter.” The button nose scrunched. Her head cocked to the side. “And my mummy does not make a habit of befriending _professors_.”

The way ‘professors’ was accentuated caused the brunette’s muscles to tense. At a loss for a response, Myka’s head lurched back. “Oh?”

“Mummy says _teachers_ are society’s gift to progress and perseverance…”

“She would say that.”

“… but _professors_ are the bottom feeders to those who do the real work in educating new generations of genius.”

Both women’s mouths fell open, Myka at the child’s boldness and Emily at her own crumbling image. Emily shot an apologetic smile at the other woman, a tinge of red in both their cheeks.

“Well,” Emily laughed through the stern look she shared with Christina, “aren’t we propulsive today? What did I tell you about reading philosophical text?”

“Mummy, you know I don’t like to read.”

“As you do so like to remind me.”

“And it wasn’t written.” Her eyes fluttered as she explained quite unapologetically, “I rather heard it from you.”

Myka’s brows rose higher even after the shaking dismissal from Emily

“What did Mummy say about eavesdropping?” Emily laid a firm hand on her shoulder, but the girl’s gaze just rose to the sky. “We shall discuss your mutiny later. Say farewell to Myka and run along to Angie, now.”

Christina sighed heavily. “It was lovely to meet you, Miss Bering.” Her smile was less than genuine. “I must be off or Angie will surely scold me for making her labor about in search.”

With a smile more than genuine Myka nodded goodbye to the girl whose black hair traveled on the wind.

Despite the echo of park noises Emily felt she and Myka were locked in a soundproof glass house with nothing but the buzzing in her ears and the pounding in her chest. The silence was constant and so very unbearable that the empty corners of the house filled with doubt.

“She misunderstood what I had said…” Emily said, feeling compelled to correct her daughter’s bold remarks.

“Of course,” Myka’s smile dwindled slightly as she explained, “she’s a child.”

“Yes, she is. Eight years old to be exact.”

“And her father…?”

“Not the paternal type. “ Nor husband material, Emily thought. She pulled at the sleeves of her jacket and examined Myka’s reaction. “He is not in the picture – now or ever.”

There was a nod and a sigh of what could have been relief.

“She doesn’t like to read,” Myka stated. The fact seemed to surprise her and concern her at the same time. She couldn’t imagine any child of Emily’s being anything less than a bibliophile.

“I thought you might zero in on that particular detail,” Emily surmised. “The Lake’s ardor for literature has regrettably skipped a generation. She is partial to fairy tales and stories of stranded princesses in castles, but other than that…” She shrugged sadly at the idea of late night discussions on their favorite works, an idea that would never spawn into reality. Christina was a bright child and interested in many subjects, but none of them having to do with her mother’s love of literature. “She enjoys the opera and the romantic classics of Chopin and Mendelssohn.”

“So not a complete disappointment,” Myka quipped optimistically.

“No,” Emily smiled, “not at all disappointment.”

Myka shifted, sucking her lip in silence. There was much to process and to be doing so under the guise of Emily was a bit nerve-wracking. Never before had she been put off or pressured by the woman, yet presently she was feeling herself shrink like Alice Liddell herself and losing all rank as the special someone in Emily’s life. No, Myka wasn’t jealous of a child. She couldn’t be.

A hand fidgeted for another’s. Emily longed to take Myka’s hand, squeeze it, caress it, and pour her every affection into the hand. She wanted to instill a contact that Myka could believe in and trust implicitly. In the end, her hand stayed to receive the constant twist of the other.

After a moment of silence and deafening thoughts they finally locked eyes.

Myka started hesitantly, “This is a little… sudden.”

There it was. Emily stepped forward, her hand out in reassurance. “My intention was not to throw you off, nor bait your regards. I just want you to know my family and understand that Christina is part of that family.” Emily looked away to blush. “I am not familiar with some American customs. I do not claim to know the proper time in confessing one’s occupation as a parent. I was afraid if I spoke too soon you would scare off; too late and you would leave without my loyalty intact.”

“Emily, I’m not mad. I appreciate your honesty. It couldn’t have been easy entrusting such a precious thing to a total stranger. I just need time to process this.”

Emily smiled wryly. “We are hardly strangers in a park, Myka. But time I can give you. It is the least I can do after springing the existence of my daughter upon you.”

“She’s very precocious.”

“Translation: she is a handful,” Emily said with a chuckle.

Myka loved when she laughed. It revitalized her brown eyes and brought out such a tranquil diversion to a once tense conversation.

“She’s you,” whispered Myka.

The laughter tapered off gradually. Emily’s eyes grew softer in the light of Myka’s green. She drank up the joy and promise that the sentiment brought, thinking she might not be in Barney as she once thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written a god awful long time ago, so that should explain the reference to the January 25th Revolution.


	2. Chapter 2

_The cult of Isis expanded due to the influence of witchcraft activity spanning across the Roman Empire in the fourth century BC._

“You have got to be kidding me,” Myka mumbled. “How did you ever get into college?”

After a sigh that rivaled all the others that day, she threw the paper into a mounting pile at her side. That stack in particular was reserved for the ‘extra ridiculous’ midterm reports, followed beside it with ‘ridiculous,’ ‘adequate,’ and ‘deserves my undivided attention.’ So far only two of the 23 papers had made it to that last pile.

Myka took a liberal sip of her coffee and plopped it down on her desk so it made a frustrated thump. In the midst of her small cubbyhole office she sat and grumbled like the aged and feeble professor she was not. If only she had an adequate window capable of letting in natural light. Then there would be foundation for the raging migraine setting in.

She squinted in the dull light of the room, books piled to the ceiling and attracting more dust than she’d care to admit. Maps of Egypt, several staging the rise of the Roman Empire, plastered the wall and covered up the rotting cracks her predecessor neglected. The monumental storage of books only left room for a single little desk in a dark little corner. There was one satisfactory chair with arms for the professor and another plain, orange, armless one for the visitor (however infrequent they were).

Another sigh gave way. Fingers ventured up to her temples, kneading at the pulsating anxiety. The discomfort eased somewhat, despite the past few weeks of the same distress.

Myka had learned much about Emily since the reveal of a daughter. Residing in London for the better part of her childhood and early adulthood, Emily lived on the welfare of her family. Like Myka, she imagined at a young age every Seven Wonder from her bedroom window. Unlike Myka, Emily was no stranger to travel. Nothing was impossible, no feat too great, no adventure out of reach. She had the opportunity to view the pyramids and witness their tips piercing the sky. She gasped before the paintings of Van Gogh in Amsterdam, struck awesome on the steps of Parthenon and bewildered in the shadows of the Coliseum’s winding ruins. But witnessing history in both its ruin and its renovated state was not enough. Seeing foreign lands did not quench Emily’s creativity. The nations and their people seemed to dull the senses and further rouse her hunger for adventure. Her travels around Europe and her interaction with its citizens were not enough, so she spawned worlds and characters of her own. And these worlds did not have a history of ruin or renovation. Its people were more than artless cutouts of a tedious mind. Emily’s imagination was limitless, and so were her stories.

Her family was not accepting of her constant travels and fantastical sagas. For a soon-to-be woman there was no time for these ‘frivolous activities’ as her mother termed them. She was the burden to her family (her Casanova brother taking on the more honorable title of ‘pride and joy’) and, therefore, prepared to be married off to the first bachelor of heavy pocket. Emily had avoided her womanly duties for a time. She attended school (all the while taking daily jaunts to Paris), earned her physics degree, and began her career as a high school teacher.

At one time the dreamer and aspiring writer became engaged to a lawyer of a wealthy English family. Her parents, of upper middle class standing, encouraged such an opportunity. Encouraged was putting it lightly. The fuss of marriage would not have been born if a child hadn’t been thrown into the mix. Emily became pregnant in her late 20s and reluctantly beholden to the lawyer father. They shared an affection for one another, but not at the expense of long-term commitment.

Emily’s family was not accepting of her getting pregnant out of wedlock and ‘proposed a solution.’ Either she married the esteemed lawyer before the child’s birth (so as to spare their family’s honor), or be forthwith banished from their household and the bit wealth it afforded. Independent mind that she was, Emily chose exile without as much as a thought. And so she and her newborn daughter moved to America to start over.

Since settling in the States Emily hadn’t the time to travel and write as she had a daughter to provide for. Because she turned her back on all family entitlements it was also a new experience to live on her own means. Everything was a new experience, a fresh opportunity that afforded benefits and challenges alike. Without a heavy bank account, parental guidance, or the support of a husband, Emily raised a child all on her own and managed to carry on a full-time job. She was no stranger to the world and its cultures, and somewhere between school, travel, and a job she managed to create a family of her own. In a way, Emily was the person Myka had always dreamed of becoming – free and unattached, worldly and unafraid.

But here Myka Bering was, sitting in a dusty, cramped office and grading the work of apathetic students. She hated her job, couldn’t find the time to travel, and had no family of her own to speak of. It would be depressing if it weren’t for her collection of books and her friendship with Emily

“Upon this site she will build her library!”

Myka’s head lifted to the familiar voice trailing in. She smiled as a head full of red hair came into view followed by a theatrical wave of hand.

“And the pitiless children shall not prevail against it,” the woman finished as deep as her bow.

Well, it wasn’t entirely true that Myka didn’t have a family of her own. There was always Claudia Donovan.

“Hey, Claud.”

Claudia may be 22 and a student at the university, but she had a tenacity and focus her peers lacked. Computers were a strong suit of hers and a hobby she had exercised since she could put fingers to keyboard. She knew the ins-and-outs of hacking and could build any program and protect it with state-of-the-art security software (when affordable). Her chops were so legendary it was whispered about campus that Claudia, nicknamed “Knock Knock,” Donovan could even hack into the NSA itself.

A friendly, caffeine addicted brainiac with a troubled past, Claudia was a mystery wrapped in a firewall and locked tight enough that Houdini himself couldn’t break in. She never elaborated on her childhood, but from what Myka gathered from short, mumbled admissions she was a foster kid who later had a complicated relationship with the authorities. What she lacked in discipline she made up for in intellect. She was highly intelligent and had the grades to prove it (when she wasn’t playing hooky in order to wait in line for some highly anticipated computer software or hardware).

Her job working as a campus technician called her to solve student and staff computer issues, which explained her constant visits to Myka (one of many technologically challenged professors). Though a computer science major, Claudia was interested enough in history that her off time was spent hanging out in Myka’s office.

On that day Claudia sauntered in with an air of sophistication not known to many of her age.

“You know,” she said casually, “this place is actually starting to resemble Egypt,” her finger swiped at one of the shelves and came away with an inch of dust, “with all its hidden treasures.” She cringed at the sea of dust coated books, the things she would prefer to page through electronically.

“I clean,” Myka pouted, “…sometimes,” she finished weakly.

“It shows.”

“So what brings you around? As far as I know I haven’t sent a request for tech support.”

“Myka, when are you going to realize that you will always be in need of my services?” Claudia jutted her chin in the direction of a laptop, sitting forlorn atop a stack of books on gladiators. “That poor thing has so passed its expiration date that it could belong in the period it lives with over there. What is it? Circa… Gluteus Maximus BC?”

“You watch way too many Russell Crowe movies, Claud.”

“… But even I, the Empress Claudias, can keep it purring just by the stroke of my savvy little fingers.”

Myka chuckled as the young woman fluttered her eyes and wiggled her fingers in perfect ‘jazz hands’ fashion.

“Go ahead and keep up the sass. You’ll find yourself in detention.”

Claudia’s hand slapped over her mouth in fake horror. “You would never!”

“Try me.” Myka narrowed her eyes coldly in the manner she had learned from the master of mock intimidation, Emily Lake.

“Ha, I would never. So skipping over my usual smart ass salutations I’ll get right to the point: spill.”

“What?”

Making a show of friendly superiority, she plopped herself in the visitor chair and used Myka’s desk to prop up her sneakers, crossed at the ankles. “Spill the beans,” she explained. “What’s the buzz? The scandal? The scuttlebutt?”

“If we’re talking campus gossip then I can’t divulge such information. You know how I like to keep myself out of the papers and far from the water cooler talk.”

“So that leaves…?”

Myka should have foreseen the line of questioning. Claudia was like a sister to her, and, because of their close relationship which was based on a trust not easily surrendered, a confidante in matters of her personal life. Because of that connection, the tech wiz could detect her anxiety from a mile away.

“Emily Lake,” responded Myka finally.

Claudia clapped happily, and leaned over the desk like she was about to dine on the juiciest gossip since Ted Willard got suspended for plagiarizing the entire work of Fifty Shades of Grey (what a noob).

“So how is the lovely lady paramour?”

“We’re not –“

“Dating, I know. You remind me five times a day.”

“It’s strictly platonic,” Myka insisted.

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“We meet for lunch once a week and occasionally attend the theater. Also, we sometimes have dinner so Christina doesn’t feel left out.”

“I retract my earlier statement. You two have flown right past dating and are already on to marriage with children.”

“Claudia,” groaned Myka, chin raised to the ceiling as she felt her migraine returning.

“Alright, alright! Just tell me you aren’t worked up over the kid again, Myka, because you don’t deserve to deal with annoying brood on and off the job.”

“She’s not annoying,” the professor defended. Her eyes diverted then in a show of discourage. “She’s just hard to please.”

Christina was a rambunctious yet darling eight-year-old. Very much Emily’s daughter in appearance and temperament, the only difference being her indifference to literature; she remained partial to dolls and dress up. She was a mama’s girl, always at Emily’s heels and hanging on her every word. She rarely inquired about the absent father she didn’t remember. Emily was honest with Christina about how her parents fell out of love (or rather, possessed strict affection but nothing more). All Christina knew was her parents got a divorce and her father was too busy with work to see her.

Christina’s existence brought out old insecurities in Myka. Relationships never came easy to the professor and adding a child into the mix was going a bit too fast for Myka’s comfort. Her friendship with Emily was solid, but it was just that: friendship. Myka had not anticipated the next level, yet when Emily made a formal production out of having her and Christina meet did Emily mean for something more to develop? Did the idea of having Christina spend time with them mean she wanted more than friendship? They had decided together on the girl’s inclusion into their jaunts, but who was to say it wasn’t Emily’3s plan all along?

It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate Emily’s candor. Bringing Christina into things drew Emily into a new light and was instrumental in pulling back the curtain to the woman’s past. In so doing, she granted Myka further into her good, trusting graces. Christina was not as gracious.

The couple of times the three girls went out for lunch and the occasional dinner Myka had gone above and beyond to get to know the girl, but was always met with a stiff upper lip. It was no secret that Myka was not acquainted with children. They made her uncomfortable, always forcing her to dumb down her vocabulary and treat them like little versions of themselves. Christina was not like that, of course. She was above and beyond intelligent for her age and highly proper. The adult-like manner in which the girl carried herself threw Myka off just as well.

“I’m starting to think she resents my relationship with her mother. When we’re all together Emily and I make sure she doesn’t feel left out, but sometimes it’s like it’s too much for her. She’s always undermining our dynamic and pitting us against one another. Did you know she still brings up the whole high school teachers are more superior to professors line?”

Claudia shook her head more to hide the smirk.

“I mean, I try, Claudia. I really do, but it’s like talking to a brick wall. She’s so stubborn and so much like Emily. I don’t know why, but I really want Christina to like me.”

“You want her blessing.” Claudia spotted the deep frown in Myka’s expression and explained, “You want her to accept you and Emily as friends. Close friends,” she added with a sly grin.

Myka shrugged. “Well, sure.”

“Have you spoken to Emily about this?”

“No, of course not. It would be overstepping on my part. I’m only Christina’s mother’s friend; not, as you so often misinterpret, her stepmother. And if I want to get in Christina’s good graces I can’t be a tattletale.”

“Myka, this isn’t high school. If you and the kid have a problem Emily should know. She cares about you, you know.” The sincerity in her eyes bore into Myka’s. “If there’s a cramp in your relationship with her daughter she would find a solution.”

“I don’t want her to think I’m complaining or that I don’t care enough to win Christina over. I’m just not well versed in the world of children…“

“Even you were a child at one time,” Claudia pointed out. “Use your experience.”

“Yeah, but kids these days are different. They’d rather play video games than play chess in the park.”

“This is an eight-year-old girl we’re talking about. Does the daughter of Emily Lake play Rock’em Sock’em Robots followed by Grand Theft Auto in the evening till she needs a new shipment of Red Bull?”

Myka let out a chuckle, replying, “At the expense of disappointing your sentimental nature towards Rock’em Sock’em, I will say no.”

“So play towards her strengths!” Claudia offered exuberantly. “Take her to an opera or buy her one of those Build-a-Dolls or whatever. Make an impression that she won’t have any opportunity to discredit. Be yourself. How can anyone not like that? God, you’re so sweet and brainy I want to hug you right now.”

“Easy, there, Claud.”

“What,” she said, a brow rising wickedly. She folded her arms and leaned back into her chair. “Are you afraid someone’s going to get jealous? Myka, Myka, Myka… I know you have eyes for another. You can’t deny it. It’s all over your petrified face.”

The professor’s face scrunched hesitantly. “My face is not petrified.”

“It was when I mentioned ‘jealous’ and ‘you know who’ in the same sentence. Oh, my friend, you’ve got it bad for that one. Which reminds me… when am I going to meet this woman?”

“If you keep acting like presumptuous Frank from down the street then you’ll see her when hell freezes over.”

“When do you see her again?”

“Tonight. I’m hosting dinner at my place.”

“The rugrat, too?”

“Yep.”

Claudia’s lips formed a line and she nodded firmly. “Good luck with that.”

Myka could feel the sympathy in the bid.

* * *

Emily always felt a tension seizing her before she was to meet Myka. It ran up her spine, creeped through the muscles of her arms, and extended all the way to her fingertips.She first sensed the effects when they met. Her heart beat so fast, her skin tingling to the air, and millions of hairs stood on end in the presence of this bookish wonder. She couldn’t explain why this happened weeks later after having become familiar with Myka more than any other person she’d called ‘friend.’ It wasn’t fear – that she understood more than anything. The minutes, the seconds leading up to Myka’s dazzling face and smile that lit up her world… just the anticipation of the woman brought on a giddy nervousness.

“Mummy, you’re fidgeting.”

Startled out of her trance, Emily ripped her stare from the door she had just knocked to the girl beside her. “What?”

Christina gestured to the fingers drumming against pleated black slacks. “You always told me fidgeting was a sign of weakness.”

“Christina, not everything I say can be taken as gospel.”

“So I can have chocolate tonight after 7?” the girl asked, popping up on her heels.  

“No. Did you remember to pack your inhaler?”

“Christina?”

She winced slightly, staring up at her mother. “I may have misplaced it in transit?”

“How many times have I told you to double check your carry on before you leave the house? This happens every time! Do you know how dangerous it would be if you were to have an asthma attack without it?”

“So does that mean we can go home?”

Emily caught on to the hopeful tone. It was not the first time the child attempted to use her charms to escape a get together with Myka. She scolded with a severe brow, “No. As your dutiful and loving mother I always carry a spare inhaler. We are staying, and do purge the sulking. Myka was kind enough to invite us for dinner and I would hope any daughter of mine would say their ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous’ no matter what grudge you have against her.” She inclined her head and set her jaw so as to make sure there was no room for disagreement. “Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

As if the timing couldn’t get any more perfect, the lock clicked and the two guests set their eyes upon the tall brunette. Myka was casually dressed in dark jeans and a white long sleeve blouse similar to the blue one of Emily’s. Christina rolled her eyes at the adults’ impeccable tendency to dress alike.

“You guys made it.”

“Yes, we did,” Emily replied smiling. The tingling spread across her skin and warmed to the sight of Myka’s smile and dazzling face (just as dazzling as remembered and, perhaps, dreamed of). “You would have been kept longer if I hadn’t remembered Christina’s inhaler as she often misplaces it.”

“Mooom,” the girl griped.

Emily rolled her eyes to the ‘mom’ title only uttered under extremely necessary circumstances (like when mother embarrassed child).

Myka smiled to the flawlessly dressed eight-year-old in a purple skirt and cream sweater. “I lose my things all the time. And it always happens to be the important stuff like my car keys or god forbid a student’s paper.”

Keeping her promise to be on her best behavior, Christina hid her sneer instead of displaying it outright. She walked past Myka into the apartment without a word.

Myka’s eyes stayed fused to the spot Christina had vacated in an odd sort of haze. What was with this girl? she asked herself. In an effort to turn a tense, embarrassing situation into a funny joke or maybe even something they could relate to all she had managed to do was further alienate Christina from her. Myka was even acting like her usual self, just as Claudia advised.

The squeeze on her arm shook her from the frozen state. Emily gave her a reassuring smile and followed her daughter. Myka touched where the hand had left and felt a little better.

It was not hard to deduce the main attraction. In the corner of Myka’s modestly decorated one bedroom apartment was a round, dining table encircled by three chairs. Dishware and silverware stood out in their proper setting atop the burgundy tablecloth. Even from afar Emily could discern its soft texture and easy weave stitches. At the table’s center was their dinner: meatloaf, steaming fresh from the oven and giving off such a mouth-watering smell Emily’s taste buds tingled in anticipation. Accompanying the centerpiece were green beans sautéed in garlic and cranberries, a waiting bowl of mashed potatoes, and a basket of warm rolls.

It looked as any table of Myka Bering’s should: simple yet elegant, quaint but modern. It made a certain statement. Myka wanted the company as the three chairs emphasized, and everything from the plain dishes to the gorgeous tablecloth was presented with a delicate touch, with care.

“You did not have to go to all this trouble,” Emily conceded, fingers running along the wine-red tablecloth. “Take-out would have been perfectly satisfactory.”

“Nonsense. I want to show you what a real American dinner is like.” Myka tipped her head in Christina’s direction. “Both of you.”

Unaffected by the grand gesture, Christina plopped herself down in a random seat and supplied a, “Thank you, Myka.”

The hostess smiled brightly. “You’re very welcome.”

Maybe she was getting through that stubborn wall after all. She glanced over at Emily in time to catch the wink sent in her direction. The day before, Myka had drilled her on Christina’s favorite meals and musical pieces, hence the meatloaf and echo of _Aïda_ drifting from the stereo. Giuseppe Verdi’s four act opera was actually a favorite of Myka’s and she was, therefore, thrilled at the prospect that she and Christina might finally come to an understanding.

Dinner advanced without a hitch. Everything was as delicious as it smelled; the beans perfectly seasoned and cooked to a tender finish without sacrificing that bite. The dwindling bowl of mashed potatoes was buttery and indicative of second helpings. Even the meatloaf, which the Englishwoman described as a hodgepodge of ground meat and whatever else Americans had lying around, tasted divine. Emily normally frowned upon such an aesthetically complex dish, but conceded occasionally to her daughter’s request. However, as Emily held back a moan around her delicate bit of meat she realized her own attempts at the dish were vastly inferior to this.

Emily congratulated their hostess on her superb cooking and was not shy to admit to herself that it was definitely one of Myka’s attractive qualities.

“Thanks,” Myka replied, flushed from neck to forehead. “I’m just glad I have such lovely company to share it with.”

“It’s very tasty, Myka.” Christina folded her hands on the table, trying her all to look the opposite of appreciative. Despite her tendency to insult the professor, her stomach was full and so very agreeable to Myka’s cooking skills. That did not mean the woman deserved a Nobel Prize for best tasting meatloaf. There was still dessert to critique. “Thank you for your efforts.”

Emily’s heart soared at Myka’s perseverance in the battle to win her daughter’s affections. Christina was never one to warm up to any of Emily’s romantic acquaintances much less her friends. Since settling in America there have been few suitors who caught the eyes of the Englishwoman. Those that managed that feat got a swift stiff arm from little Christina who wanted her mother all to herself. Emily couldn’t complain; after the 12 month hump of raising a toddler on her own she had come to adore her limited family of two. She surrounded herself with few friends and even fewer of those had her complete trust. Myka was different. She was neither a friend nor a suitor. She was a make all her own with her quirks and kindhearted nature. Emily admired Myka’s fervor and passion for her career and how she pushed herself and other women to strive for better than what they were given.

One thing was for sure, the professor did not back down. Myka’s persistence warmed Emily’s heart, making her feel for the first time as if someone was protecting her and Christina’s well-being. For the first time, someone cared about their happiness and made gestures that put the widest of smiles on their faces – well, Emily’s at least.

In her constant beholding of Myka (for she had her undivided attention the whole night), green eyes finally fell on her. In the background, _Aïda_ competed with Christina’s tale of her school day while the two women shared a quiet stare. Emily couldn’t help feeling how right this felt, and as a result did not want it to end. So they traced their expressions with attentive eyes, memorized the laugh lines and the frown lines and taking in the warmth and light their smiles gave one another. No expectations, just pure bliss and long sought peace.

Breaking the connection with a sip from her wine, Emily puffed up some courage and started what was hoped to be a successful plan of attack.

“Christina,” she spoke, “do you remember our annual trips to the opera?  We would attend one of the year’s most talked about performance and then follow it with an elegant – and might I add expensive – dinner out?”

With lemon meringue pie under strict review Christina placed down her fork quickly and straightened in her chair. Her eyes widened with an enthusiasm not seen that night. “Of course! We saw _Tosca_ last year and it was amazing! You even managed to acquire reservations at The Waterfront.”

Myka’s brows rose sky high at the mention of one of Chicago’s most highly sought after restaurants.

“Yes, and I was not willing to let you leave without their complimentary tiramisu.”

Leaning over the table, Myka gasped to Emily, jaw open, “They hand out free tiramisu?”

“The best I’ve ever had,” Emily responded with a wink and smiled over at Christina. “You couldn’t stop talking about it for weeks. I had to peel you off the walls, you were so ecstatic about going back a second time.”

“Can we go? The opera as well?”

“I think I can make room in my schedule for dinner and a show,” Emily replied, fainting contemplation.

Christina let out a squeal of joy that had the other two women wincing.

“I’ve never seen anyone so overjoyed by opera and tiramisu.”

“You have no idea,” Emily told Myka, chuckling. “You should see her after she has had her precious tiramisu. In fact…” she turned to her daughter with an eager mien, “I think Myka should join us this time. She can see you in all your sugar high glory.”

The girl’s exuberance fell. Her entire body seemed to sag in the chair, face falling to an all new low. “What?” she asked with a frown, not sure if she heard correctly.

“I’m saying we should invite Myka to our little outing. She likes opera just as you do and from this lovely dinner she’s cooked us I would think our hostess is much obliged towards Italian desserts. What do you say?” Cheeks sore from how much she was smiling, Emily directed the question to Myka as well.  

Myka opened her mouth to respond, her lips turning up into a grin, but was interrupted.

“No.”Christina had a fixed stare on her empty dinner plate.

Emily frowned, “What did you say?”

“No!” she shouted. It was so direct and firm that Emily visibly reeled back in her chair. “Why does she have to come? This is _our_ tradition!”

“Christina, that is enough. I did not raise a spoiled child and I should think not one who would behave in this manner towards our hostess.” Emily took a breath. She had had it with her daughter’s insolence. Myka didn’t deserve it after all she was doing to make Christina happy. Maybe Emily had been too easy on the girl, because now it would seem her stubbornness needed a firmer lesson in manners. Red and fuming, Emily continued. “Myka has welcomed us into her home, yet you throw that kindness in her face. All she’s ever done is make you feel like the bright girl you are. Do other adults treat you as such?”

Christina glared under her lashes. The logic of her mother’s argument weighed heavy on her dropping shoulders. She made a good point. Grownups usually laughed off her established ways and encouraged her to do something absurd like watching television. “No,” Christina conceded.

“It is not that I do not enjoy our time together,” Emily said, laying a gentle hand over her daughter’s fist, “just the two of us. I feel so lucky to have a daughter that actually jumps at the chance to spend time with me. Do you know how rare that is at your age? Many children would rather stomp off with their school friends.” Emily smiled to the rolling eyes. Christina had friends, but it was no secret to either of them how much she would rather spend her day with Mummy. “Myka is not your enemy, she is your friend. More importantly, she is mine as well.” She looked over at the woman who was sitting silent, but attentive. Emily smiled and Myka returned it. “I think we would all have a grand time together at the opera. And I’m sure you could find it in your heart to share your tiramisu with Myka.”

“But I don’t want to share my tiramisu,” Christina replied. She looked down in her lap sadly. “I don’t want to share anything.”

“Do not act as if it is the end of the world, Christina. If I wish to invite her you will accept my decision and that is final.”

The chair flew back without warning. A very stubborn, blazing eyed child stood in its place. “She always ruins everything!” She raced off in the direction of the bathroom.

“Christina…?” Myka started after the girl but was halted by the other woman’s shake of the head.

“Don’t, Myka.”

The door slammed. Silence followed.

Myka returned to her chair, placing her napkin back on her lap as there was still dessert to finish. She stared down at the limp meringue, its crowning peaks and swirls of cream, and the smooth lemon insides. Her hand slipped over her stomach, clutching at the growing anxiety (or indigestion). After the uncomfortable exchange she just heard the pie did not at all look appetizing. This was what she was afraid of: silence and disappointment. But mostly the inescapable silence.

“I really didn’t mean to upset her…”

“You think this is _your_ fault?” Emily gaped across the table. When Myka bit her lip and shrugged she let out a laugh and said, “Myka, do not think anything of the sort. This is on me. She was entirely out of line. Perhaps I have spoiled her because she seems to think I am hers and nobody else’s…”

Myka’s head tipped, brow furrowed in thought of Emily’s supposition and just how easily it was divulged.

_Did Emily consider me hers? Do I think of Emily as mine?_

Shaking herself of the absurdity of people as possessions, Myka tuned back into her friend’s ranting.

“… always thought I should be as they were. But I didn’t want that for myself, and surely not for my own daughter. I still care for my parents, but they will never have that kind of effect on Christina. I want her to grow up knowing she can do anything – that there are no impossibilities so long as she believes in herself and what is right.”

“And you’ve taught her that. You can’t believe her rebelling against you is the same thing as what you went through with your family. You left them because they gave you no choice. Christina is just mad at the world,” Myka fidgeted in her chair, eyes panning down as she added, “and me. But she would never leave you and she doesn’t hate you. She’s just headstrong is all.”

“You hold my parenting skills in too great a regard,” Emily pointed out, shaking her head amusingly. She rubbed at her pulsating temples. “Why did I have to give birth to a daughter who loves me too much?”

“It’s because she loves you so much that she will never leave you. That’s one fear you won’t have to worry about.” Myka turned to the still closed door of her bathroom. “Maybe I should check on her,” she suggested hesitantly.

“No. Stay with me.” Emily slid her chair closer to Myka. She calmed the brunette with a steady hand on her arm. “When the child throws a tantrum it’s best to let her cool off. If you want to have a civil conversation this is not the time. Trust me.” Emily leaned in with the dazzling eyes she knew Myka shivered under. “And she does not hate you. She hates that the lemon meringue went untouched by her antsy fork.”

“You really think she liked my cooking?”

“She practically inhaled her first serving before I even got to the mashed potatoes. If her judgment of food is anything like mine, then she adored it. And the pie? Well…” she hovered over Myka’s untouched slice and licked her lips, “I haven’t gotten around to that yet.”

Myka’s swallow was audible. “Well, this one’s mine. You’ll have to get your own.”

“But I like this one,” Emily shot back with a wide smile. “I only have eyes for yours.”

Beheld and challenged by slightly darker brown eyes, Myka’s lips parted to respond but nothing came to her haze-filled mind. Before thoughts were put to coherent words there was a scraping sound. Myka found Emily’s fork sneaking a shovel-full of cream, crust, and lemon and disappearing between lovely pink lips. Emily half snickered at her own trickery and half moaned to the delicious flavor of the pie.

Not having tasted any herself, Myka just sat back and enjoyed her best friend’s victory.

_I bet it’s a delicacy._


	3. Chapter 3

“I got slated for academic confinement,” Emily grumbled into the receiver of her work phone.

“Oh,” Myka gasped conspiratorially,” what on earth did you do that landed you in detention?”

“You are so humorous, dear.” Emily heard the laugh on the other line and already her spirits were lifting. “I will have to oversee the delinquents until 3:30, so I will be unable to pick up Christina today. Angie will love that, seeing as it was supposed to be her day off.”

“How about I pick her up? I’m already ahead of schedule today.”

There was a pause on the other line, then an intake of breath. “Are you sure, Myka? I do not want to impose.”

Myka knew what Emily was asking. Behind those words was an apprehensive mother. Christina’s tantrums were few and far between, but she was not without her stiff retorts and glib comments in the presence of the professor. It wasn’t that Emily didn’t trust Myka. Faith in her daughter’s behavior dwindling, Emily only desired peace for them all. A stalemate did not seem imminent. She felt herself a middleman between the people she cares most about, and Myka was aggrieved for Emily

“It’s no trouble. And it gives the two of us some time to have fun without Mom hovering,” Myka snickered, way more excited than she should at the prospect of handing over a sugar-frenzied Christina to Emily

“Ah, getting back at me for that lemon meringue incident, I see. Well, don’t let her eat too much before her dinner. Just a snack. And do not fall for her tricks. Those fluttering eyes and ‘Mummy dearests’ used to work wonders on my resolve.”

“Oh, ye of little faith. I already have a plan of attack. I thought I’d go grocery shopping first and tire the girl out until snack time. What do you think?”

“Wear the target out and placate afterwards. I think you are giving General Patton a run for his money, dear. While you’re at it could you be a dear and pick up a few provisions for your ally in arms?”

“That’s pushing it, Lake, but I think I could muster up some good old fashioned camaraderie.”

“I am much appreciative, Comrade.”

Myka chuckled from the other line. She wished her friend luck with the delinquents while Emily granted the same with her daughter.

* * *

“So what did you do in school today?”

“School things.”

Myka rolled her eyes. She gripped the steering wheel tighter and drove on.

“Anything interesting? Or was it nothing you didn’t know already?”

Ha. A compliment wrapped in a very direct question. She couldn’t escape her clutches now.

“It was all boring if you ask me.” Christina glared out the window and muttered under her breath, “Quite like this conversation.”

Strike two.

Remembering Claudia’s input that she herself was a kid once, Myka tried to recall how her time at school was. Unlike Christina, eight-year-old Myka adored her teachers and the lessons they assigned. She couldn’t wait to proceed into the next grade and receive _more_ assignments. And when her parents inquired about her day she gushed on and on until her sister jumped in and monopolized the conversation. Suddenly, a thought struck Myka.

“Christina, some of your friends have big families, right?”

The girl looked over at Myka and frowned at the unexpected question. “Yes.”

“Um,” Myka shifted in her driver’s seat, eyes focused ahead, “well, do you ever wish you had a sibling? Like a little brother or sister?”

“I don’t know. I suppose not. One does not need a father or a sibling to be a family.”

“Of course not. You and your mother are very close. I can see that.”

“And I like my family the way it is. I do not need a brother or a sister. Or another parent for that matter.”

She didn’t tear her gaze from the road to know the girl was glaring at her. Myka could feel the tension coming from her in waves. She wasn’t exactly offended, of course. She understood that Christina felt threatened, even when there was no basis for it. She was a child and was obviously making assumptions based on her and her mother’s relationship. Emily and Myka were close, she could admit to that, but did she intend to come between a mother and her daughter? Did she want to instill herself in the girl’s life as her mother? No, absolutely not. Surely not. _No._

_Then why do I feel so offended?_

“I care about your mother very much. She’s my friend – the most trusting one I’ve ever had. And because of that you matter to me, too. The last thing I want to do is take Emily’s place. Can you really not understand that I just want to make you both happy? After all the time we’ve spent together?”

Christina continued her stare out the passenger window, fascinated by the passing trees and street lamps. She may have been in denial, but it was better than a verbal contradiction.

* * *

The fluorescent lights beat down on them with a vengeance. The grocery store wasn’t exactly bustling with its open cashier lines and semi-vacant aisles. Myka examined her list before instructing her shopping partner of what they needed.

“We need to go past produce and bakery. There are a few things your mom wants us to pick up.”

“Like what?”

“Um… pasta, zucchini, a few spices, and five apples. Also, a bottle of red wine which I’m assuming she left up to my poor expertise as she doesn’t specify what kind.”

Christina stood beside the cart like a reluctant guard. Her hands went to her hips and she demanded, “Since when does my mother need help shopping? Are you her lapdog now?”

Myka sighed, and went with the simplest of answers. “She’s busy. Her students need her until 3:30.” She gave the girl a sympathetic smile and added, “The sooner we get this list done the sooner we can grab a snack and go home. You do want a snack, don’t you? I think there’s a frozen yogurt place just a few blocks from here.”

“Bribery is not your forte, Myka.”

There was an eye roll, but Myka detected a slight crack in her resolve at the mention of a snack.

_Kids and their snack time. If I had known it was this easy I would have proposed it sooner._

“Our milk has expired at home,” Christina informed in a neutral tone, “so I will fetch a half gallon.”

Without waiting for a response from the adult she stomped off to the dairy department.

“Kids,” Myka mumbled lightly.

Ten minutes later and Myka had yet to bump into Christina. She didn’t think anything of it, citing the girl’s need for privacy and a little distance. Running through her grocery list it seemed like just about everything had been checked off. Everything but the milk.

“Help! Someone help!”

Brunette hair whirled to Myka’s turn, her ears picking up the shout. She looked up and down the cereal aisle but there was no upset customer in sight.

“Call an ambulance! This girl can’t breathe!”

Myka recalled her charge’s asthma condition and gasped.

Boots clapped the pristine floor as Myka sprinted down the aisle, rounded the corner, and headed towards the commotion, not slowing down for anything or anyone. Her list was left forgotten on the floor, any customer in her way got pushed unapologetically to the side. When she got to the scene a middle aged woman and a store employee were kneeling beside a black haired child. Cans of soup littered the floor around them; probably a result of the collapse. The girl’s chest was moving, but slowly and her eyes were shut. Sweat formed on her little forehead and her face was sheet white.

“Christina!” Myka cried, sliding down to the floor and grabbing the wheezing body by the shoulders. All the times she had returned Myka’s kindness with spite and resentful mutterings, Christina remained unresponsive, not a single argumentative bone in her body. She was just a scared little girl who wanted to breathe.

“Is this your daughter, ma’am?” the clerk asked, noticing Myka’s distraught state.

“No, she’s my friend’s daughter.” Forgoing an additional explanation her fingers went to the child’s neck. Feeling around for a pulse, Myka sucked in a steady breath of her own despite a spike in adrenaline. She had to remain calm. Calm was good. Calm was how a mother acted.

_But I’m not a mother._

There was a pulse, but it was weak. Christina was gasping then, lips mumbling without words on them.

“Don’t speak, child.” The older woman patted the girl’s shoulder and nodded with sound advice. “Focus on breathing.”

Myka’s hands flew to her purse and rummaged for the object. She had spent so much time around Christina and Emily that, knowing of the girl’s condition and her absent-mindedness, took it upon herself to carry a back-up plan.

When she found the inhaler she used one hand to cup the back of Christina’s head and support her up to take the medication. Her fingers slipped through her black curls and Myka almost broke down into tears at how soft they were.

_Please don’t die on me, sweetheart. Be the stubborn girl you are and BREATHE._

Pinpricks of tears escaped from the corners of the girl’s brown eyes. At that moment Myka realized how similar they were to Emily’s. She saw the wall break down around her wheezing body, those big brown eyes widening in fear and begging for help regardless of the hatred she harbored for the woman. Myka felt her own tears falling and wiped them away quickly before Christina could see them. She had to stay strong.

After prepping the device with a good shake she held it to the discolored lips. “You know what to do, sweetheart. Just breathe in as usual.” Myka’s voice broke at the end, but thankfully the device was still firmly in her grip.

Christina gave a nod. She parted her dry lips and took pains to breathe in slowly as Myka pressed the inhaler. After a few minutes of synchronized breaths the creases around Christina’s eyes eased, the tears stopped, her pain abated. The small hand atop her chest unclenched from the material of her shirt.

Myka breathed out herself upon seeing the color flowing back to the girl’s face. She checked her pulse again to find it even and stronger than before. Myka sighed with relief. The employee was long gone, having acquired a case of squeamishness, but the old lady who found Christina stayed beside Myka like an ever watchful angel.

“The paramedics are on their way,” spoke the manager.

_Could have called them sooner, asshole._

Though Christina hadn’t spoken a word, Myka took the girl in her arms and pressed her close to her chest. There was no struggle, no defiance or refusal. She would never have dared touch the girl this way before, but considering what Christina went through… well, if Myka had almost suffered from lack of oxygen _she_ would want to be hugged. She would want to know someone was there to protect her.

No argument came from Christina so Myka just held her and rubbed a soothing hand to the small back. When she felt the little arms curling around her waist Myka gasped softly. When she heard her name being rasped against her neck the voice sounded defeated, tired, and ashamed. A cold nose poked against her collarbone and Myka shushed the girl and began rocking her slowly, softly like a child all her own.

The older woman rose to her feet, brushed down her skirt and placed a gentle hand on Myka’s shoulder. “You may not be this girl’s mother, miss, but she is lucky to have you.”

The hand patted once more before retracting with the fleeting form of the Good Samaritan. For the first time in her life Myka smiled at the thought of motherhood. She pressed her lips to Christina’s warm forehead. She stayed with her like that until the paramedics took over.

* * *

Crisp autumn days passed and so did Christina’s resentment. No longer were her words short or her grudge enduring. Her stubbornness came to a head as Emily predicted, and Myka ceased to be a target of jealousy. The incident at the grocery store prompted an understanding between the both of them, and since then Christina and Myka had developed a friendship based on trust and affection.

When Emily was tied up at work Myka was always her first call. From school Myka would take Christina on various errands which always ended at the local frozen yogurt shop. They would talk of much, including their similar interests in opera and the works of Verdi. After a few dinners at Myka’s, Christina finally scrounged up the courage to ask the woman for lessons in cooking. Now Emily and her daughter were invited over earlier on every Wednesday and Saturday. Christina had flown past the basics of food preparation with the help of Myka’s patience and respectable talents, while Emily sipped her wine in the background, watching the two girls converse and work together like old friends.   

Seeing the change in Christina and how good Myka was with her transformed something in Emily Something peculiar that she couldn’t name or put her finger on stirred within her. This new, undisclosed feeling challenged everything she once thought about relationships and parenting. It warped her image of Myka from the woman she was to the woman she wanted to be now. When Emily saw Myka with Christina she knew the other woman’s opinion of children was changing. Myka had always been warm and kind towards the girl, but now that they shared a camaraderie unimpeded by resentment her blind attitude towards motherhood, in general, seemed to be opening its horizons.

Now, Emily had expectations.

She buttoned the top button of her jacket to keep the cold autumn night at bay. Settling in beside Myka at the picnic table, she allowed herself a moment of anxiety before her intentions were realized. That night, she would share her expectations with her friend and hope for something similar in return.

_Bullocks, why am I scared shaken?_

Blaming the sudden shiver on the weather, Emily bumped her shoulder against the brunette’s.

“This was a good idea,” Myka commented. Her breath was a fog, rolling in the wind. “I thought it would be too cold out here, but the music really helps.”

Emily beheld at the woman in her relaxed state. “A pleasurable distraction.”

Myka had never been to Jazz in the Park. She was not one for listening to music outdoors, but with Emily there and being in Chicago made it all the more special. Jazz was about as synonymous with Chicago as the pyramids were with Egypt.

With their backs supported by the edge of the picnic table the two women watched the performance from their hill perch. The stage was lit and visible from afar, its music and crowd applause drifting effortlessly into the air. Soulful tones paired with the deliberate syncopation of notes from high to low made the fusion pleasing to the ears.

Myka tipped her head and closed her eyes. “This is nice,” she whispered almost in a daze.

Struck by cowardice in the face of the woman’s beauty, Emily turned back to the stage. “Yes, it is.”

“How is your novel coming along? It’s been some time since you last updated me.”

“Oh, that,” Emily muttered. Her shoulders sagged at the thought of her pet project. “Progress has been slow. My students have kept me interminably occupied and inspiration comes sporadically if not at all.”

“Writer’s block?”

“Indeed.”

“Have you picked out names for your characters yet? I know how you like to save those details for the end, but maybe it will help you gain momentum?”

“Not yet. I want designations no one has ever heard before. Something elusive and alien.” Elbows planted on the table behind her, she leaned back and turned her eyes to the stars. Her novel was like her child, but unlike responsible Christina her story depended on her constant attentions. Ideas for how to spin her tale gave birth in her mind at the most random moments. Spinning these tales may be a hobby to some, but to Emily it was her life’s work. After a study of the constellations she concluded, “It will come to me one day. My characters and their plots have a way of creeping up on me when I least expect them.”

“You’ll let me read it one day, right? I can’t stand you holding such a remarkable novel hostage.”

“Prying eyes _will_ be satisfied, to be sure. But you will have to fight Christina for principal viewing rights.”

“I would have thought as your friend I already earned those rights,” Myka scoffed. She smirked playfully.

“The test of true loyalty has yet to come.”

“Oh? What do I have to do to gain some privileges as Emily Lake’s friend?”

“Well,” Emily’s brow furrowed as she contemplated for the woman’s benefit, “I suppose the first one who supplies a name to one of my characters will receive bragging rights and a first-hand look at chapter one.”

“But if there was a test…” Myka turned to her fully, a flash of apprehension overcoming her humor, “… what would it entail?”

Emily almost reeled back. Her apprehension mirrored the brunette’s. “Myka, I wasn’t serious. You are my friend, truly. There is no test, and if there was you already passed – with flying colors no doubt.”

“Uh… right. I guess I just got ahead of myself. Forget I said anything.”

Myka looked away, her straight dark hair covering her rosy cheeks. Emily did the same, running a hand through her hair and forcing her eyes to the jazz scene below. She breathed in and then out. Her hot breath came out in puffs, clouding in the chilly air and dissipating in the wind. It was so silent – silent of words, but deafening in music and thoughts. Emily knew she should speak up and say what was on her mind. This was the time to reveal her expectations, her desires.

_Why am I so terrified? It never used to be this problematic._

At the risk of admitting how new this experience actual was despite her assertion to the contrary, Emily dug her nails into the wood of the picnic table as a distraction. Several deep breaths and a half song later, Emily straightened and came out with it.

“Myka, I have something to ask of you.”

“Mm?”

Emily’s thought process stalled at the sight of green, expectant eyes.

_Does she look hopeful? Or is that just me projecting? Oh, I’m going to butcher this._

“Emily?”

Mouth still open Emily blinked, her words fighting to become one with the air. A hand laid over hers and she felt the shock of warmth spread across her skin. The courage she sought came to her in a generous wave, its comfort sparking her nerves to action. She tingled as she once did from their first meeting. Somehow, Emily felt invincible upon Myka’s touch. It was unexplainable. It was inspiring.

The air changed then, but not as either of them anticipated. Out of nowhere the silhouette of a figure – a woman – revealed itself. The ominous stranger approached, making noiseless strides across the lawn until it stopped before Myka and Emily. The lamplight finally exposed the face of the dark woman wearing glasses and hair fashioned in coiffed braids.

Emily gasped at the appearance of their visitor, and clutched her heart in panic at the words spoken.

“Hello, H.G. It has certainly been a long time.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For clarification’s sake, the historic and literary figure H.G. Wells does not exist in this AU.

“Hello, H.G. It has certainly been a long time.”

It took a moment for H.G. to come to her senses, but the stranger was patient. Unusually patient. H.G. rose from the picnic table, but approached the woman no further. “How are you here?” she asked breathlessly. The shock of the woman’s presence must have caused a jump in her heart rate. Adrenaline, fear, outrage… those were the things rushing through H.G.’s veins in that moment. “ _Why_ are you here?”

“It is time you come out from under your rock, Miss Wells. Much has happened and although you may not want to accept it the world has gone on without you, around you.”

The strange woman in a pink skirt and matching sweater dating to the 1950s certainly didn’t look like a threat (more like the leader of the Ladies’ Vintage Knitting Society). She held herself with authority, though, standing ramrod straight and possessing an eerie serenity. Myka trained herself to be on the defensive when approached by shady characters like that. And when they were on a deserted hill in the dead of night in Chicago Myka cursed herself for not packing her handgun (a weapon she never had to use in the past, thank god).

“Excuse me,” Myka held up a hand and kept a protective stance next to H.G. “Who are you?”

The woman turned her head, eyes following. “My name is Frederic,” she replied with little fanfare.

“W-well,” Myka stuttered but recovered with square shoulders, “I’m Myka Bering.”

“Myka is an associate professor at the university,” H.G. explained, much more lucid with the reminder that her friend was by her side. “She specializes in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt.”

“Really?”

To the perceptive Myka the woman did not look surprised by the information. She just clasped the handles of her purse in front of her body as if to ward off wary spirits. Myka had a feeling this stranger knew more about her than she was letting on.

“Yes, I’m up for tenure come next year.”

The woman gazed at Myka with an odd sort of look, head tipped and eyes narrowed. Myka almost seemed a piece of meat under the eyes of a butcher (there was probably some serious muscle underneath that sweater anyway). Fidgeting through the examination, Myka opened her mouth to ask what her problem was but thankfully she didn’t have to.

“Congratulations,” Mrs. Frederic supplied without as much as a smile. “Miss Wells?”

“I assume you wish to speak about my coming out of retirement,” H.G. said, nodding. “Well, you can do so in the presence of Myka. I will not allow you to dismiss her.”

“I had no intention of doing so. She may stay as it concerns her, too.” Mrs. Frederic’s voice leveled up in enthusiasm, though about as restrained as usual. “Miss Bering, this is your lucky day. How would you like to go on an adventure?”

“Like… now?”

“Of course we could go next month, but adventure is about spontaneity. The sooner we leave the more fun it will be.”

Something in Mrs. Frederic’s tone told Myka that this adventure she spoke of was going to be anything _but_ fun. Myka cast a suspicious glance at H.G. who was doing wonders avoiding it. Something was not right here, and there were about a dozen questions she already had lined up for her friend. Like why in the hell this woman was calling her H.G. Wells?

“Mrs. Frederic,” H.G. began firmly, “you never struck me as a woman who forgets easily. Yet wasn’t it you who once told me I could never leave Chicago? I could live and work anywhere in the area and take care of my daughter as I please, but it had to be here. Your words. Now you show up seven years later with this bombshell of a directive and ask me to go gallivanting on some adventure to god knows where.” H.G. took a daring step towards the impassive Mrs. Frederic. Speaking in dangerous tones, H.G. settled for a ruse weathered by dust and time. “I know what you really do and you are not some recruitment officer for Adventure Land.” Her threat sliced through the air, chilling Myka even. “It is one thing to approach me but another thing entirely to bring Myka into this. She is _off_ limits.”

“Resorting to age old artifices, I see. When cornered I do have to say, Miss Wells, you are a formidable opponent. Protecting those close to you has always been your strength,” she cocked her head as if H.G. would understand why she did so, “and your weakness.”

“Then you know not to test me. Whatever your intentions in coming here I can assure you they will not include Myka or my daughter. Now say what you came here to say and leave.”

“Motherhood has certainly hardened you. Alright,” she conceded. Staring unflinchingly into the dark eyes of her acquaintance, Mrs. Frederic began her story. “The condition that led to your disappearance has risen from the ashes, so to speak. My people are on the case and are closing in on the target. However, I am afraid to say, they have reached an impasse. Because of your association to the case we require your assistance. But that is not the only reason you will be leaving Chicago. The same people who sought your destruction are on to you. They have been sniffing around of late, acquiring tips and breaking into top secret documents. Soon they will reach the end of the line and find you. I cannot be certain what they will do when you are captured, but I’m sure you know what they are capable of.”

“You were supposed to keep them off my trail! That was the whole reason I put up with this charade to begin with!”

H.G. came down on the woman like a ton of bricks. Myka had never seen H.G. so untethered. Since they had met Myka knew the school teacher to be a reserved and patient woman. It was hard to accept H.G. as enraged and scorned much less her as a wanted woman. Her passion was one of the qualities Myka admired most, but her eyes were wider than normal and blazing to extreme temperatures. Myka was sure steam would roll off her skin if it were to come in contact with water. And beneath the surface her blood boiled with anger.

H.G.’s shouts carried in the wind, attracting the attention of strolling lovers. Pulling her chin down to conceal the emotions scraping to get out, she continued at a lower volume. “I have spent years living a lie, not trusting anyone for fear they were the ones responsible for my suppression, not allowing myself a minute to breathe without looking over my shoulder. Do you have any idea what that is like? And at the same time raise a daughter all on your own? Christina doesn’t even know who I really am. She doesn’t know what kind of man her father is.”

“All will be revealed to her now.”

“Because she will be ripped away from the only home she’s ever known!” she cried, throwing her hands up. “No child can take that and be expected to forgive and move on like nothing happened, like her whole life was a fabrication.”

“So living as you are now,” Mrs. Frederic said, “under an assumed name is more acceptable?”

“I have no choice in the matter. I never did. And again you are giving me no other choice but to run away.” And just like that H.G. felt the weight of an eight year burden on her shoulders. It came down on her all at once; the abandonment and loneliness, the lies and the threats, the what ifs, the could haves and should haves. It was an encumbrance she wouldn’t wish upon her worst enemy. “I must do so yet again because mine and my daughter’s lives depend upon it.”

“Which brings us to my proposition of adventure. Now, from your extensive and vivacious speech I would presume you will accept wherever your relocation is. You are thinking of your daughter’s safety, of course, and Chicago is no longer a safe haven.”

H.G. swallowed over her pride, accepting reason for Christina’s sake. “You are correct in your conjecture.”

“Miss Bering, you are an expert in the field of Hellenistic and Roman Egyptian history. My agents could use your knowledge in furthering their case. To retract Miss Wells’ claws and ease her mind I assure you this is strictly a voluntary arrangement. Compliance is entirely up to you and at no cost.”

A sidelong glance from H.G. told Myka she was giving her freedom to choose as well. The way H.G. stiffened at Mrs. Frederic’s offer, though, gave up the woman’s defiance. She seemed to know something about the people who were hunting her, leading Myka to believe they were not the kindest of souls. Which meant this relocation would be dangerous, despite its supposed safe location. Yet Myka was given a choice, something H.G. was rarely presented, apparently. If it were up to H.G. she probably would leave Myka behind in Chicago for her protection. The thought made Myka feel uncomfortably numb.

Myka tried to imagine what it would be like without H.G. and Christina. There would be no more midday lunches to distract her from the job she hated. Frank would cease to make presumptions because H.G. would not be present to enable them. No more philosophical debates, no dashing flip of her flowing hair or regal arm thrown around the back of her chair. The professor would no longer be outed by her students after spending half the period texting H.G. (which was, admittedly, worth the embarrassment). Myka would have to cook dessert knowing no challenge would present itself in a gaze that left her head in the clouds. Frozen yogurt for party of one, _La Traviata_ for only a pair of ears, and cooking lessons for no one.

It didn’t seem like a life worth living. There was nothing thrilling about it. No anticipation, no tingling sensation or breathless tranquility. That was the life she lived before that day she spilled Americano on one copy of _Candida_. Myka couldn’t remember how she spent her days earlier. H.G. and Christina overshadowed that past like a warm blanket. All she knew now was joy. They were her present. They _could_ be her future.

Sucking in a breath Myka became aware of Mrs. Frederic’s unerring patience. H.G. remained beside her, yet emotionally elsewhere. It was then that Myka made her decision.

“Where will this adventure be taking us?” she asked with a wary raise of her brow.

* * *

Whoever said Univille, South Dakota would be full of adventure was a bullshitter. That being said, Mrs. Frederic was a bullshitter, and somehow it seemed impertinent to reveal such a thing to a blank wall much less the woman in question. Holding a breath, Myka looked over her shoulder just in case.

Myka and H.G. were settled in the backseat of an unmarked SUV with Christina asleep between them. For her part, Myka couldn’t sleep, so she was left to look out the window at the very boring town called Univille. Compared to Chicago, the area was the opposite of lively. There were no townspeople rushing to work and no bustling traffic. One didn’t feel as if they were packed in like sardines; buildings and apartments actually had more than an arm span of space between them. It was so quiet and sparse Myka felt uneasy. She felt like an unwanted visitor bringing with her problems this peaceful town had no need of.

H.G. lacked the will to sleep, too, and had done as Myka in looking out her own window. The vacant streets were just as disconcerting for H.G. She had spent years in the same city, having never left for even a day for fear her identity would be known. Though miles from the perilous place she used to call home, there was still a prickling of fear at the back of her neck. She felt no safer in this vehicle which was taking them to an undisclosed location. Every once and a while her hand would find Christina’s as if to reassure her that they were still there. Myka did the same with the girl’s other hand, squeezing for life and for relief. H.G. noticed this, but made nothing of it.

The two women hadn’t spoken a word to one another since the start of their journey, but not for a lack of conversation. They had plenty to share; it just wasn’t the right time.

Following Mrs. Frederic’s eerie departure into the mist of night, H.G. and Myka were left to their vacant knoll and the sound of jazz.

“You should not have done that, Myka,” H.G. rasped. The volume of her shouts suddenly caught up with her, deepening her voice and stripping its resolve. The cold night air numbed her cords sufficiently. “You do not know what you are getting into.”

“Then I think it’s time you told me, don’t you?”

Myka returned to the picnic table, straddling the bench and waiting for H.G. to join her.

“There will be no adventure, whatever Mrs. Frederic infers. There is no guarantee you will return home.”

Dull pats sounded as a hand gestured to the table.

“Just come sit down.”

H.G. sat in her usual place, facing out towards the stage beyond. Her gaze reverted to her lap where hands worked themselves into an anxious frenzy. “I don’t know where to start.”

“This coming from a writer,” Myka teased with a smile. For a moment she forgot how this friend had lied and concealed her true identity for months. Now it seemed she was waking from a dream, disoriented by the frightening reality of the life she had been living with this woman and her child.

_Was it all really a lie?_

_Did H.G. not have a choice despite how far we’ve come, despite all we feel for each other?_

Myka swallowed down the bitter taste. “The beginning,” she suggested before her throat closed unexpectedly. “I hear that’s always a good place to start.”

H.G. quirked a smile and shook her head. Myka had that effect on her. Inspiration came in many forms, and, it would seem, was directed towards the lowest of intellects. Leave it to H.G. to forget simple notions a mere child could understand. The small bit of elation expired just as soon as the memories came pouring through the sieve she had spent years stoppering. It took a great deal of strength to allow past poisons into her system again, but H.G. couldn’t imagine the fortitude it would take for Myka to take it all in. She had been lied to for months, after all, and if H.G. were in the woman’s position tolerance would have been in short supply. She just hoped by the end of the story Myka wouldn’t change her mind about South Dakota, and more importantly about their friendship.

“The beginning,” murmured H.G. Her palms ran together, creating heat or courage or perhaps just time itself. Fingers interlaced and her clasped hands were wedged between her knees to prevent further dwelling. “It was 2005, just days after my 28th birthday and I was given a gift that would set me free and subsequently keep me from the world. My husband, Lewis Webb, and I had been married for 2 years – unhappily, though, it had not always been so horrid. When I first met Lewis I was just starting out on my own, having graduated from university and renting a flat far from my parent’s ever watchful eyes. To spare you the details of four somewhat blissful months I can say that once he proposed there was not a doubt in my mind of a refusal. I wish I could have known what I know now…”

“Do you mean to say you wouldn’t have married him?”

“We are skipping chapters, Dr. Bering. Have patience,” H.G. scolded lightly, the darkness in her eyes lightening a bit. “After the wedding I started noticing things, things about Lewis, secrets about his occupation. He was not the charming gentleman who had whisked me away from a lonely, constricting life. His kindness was a front, my status as his wife nothing more than that, a status. I was his.”

There was a laugh. Myka shivered at the lack of joy in it.

“Now that I’m saying this out loud for the first time I realize how Victorian it all sounds. I was trapped in a loveless marriage and bound to a man who lied for a living. Our house – _his_ house was one of secrets and abomination. When I found a man bloodied, beaten, and tied to a chair in one of the guest bedrooms it all became reality for me.”

_H.G.’s heart leapt up in her throat, stopping any exclamation from making it known. She had already been spotted by the man, so there was no reason to run. H.G. took a step further into one of the guest bedrooms, the place that had called to her in screams of agony. The roaring fireplace bathed her face in its golden light, revealing the lines of fright etched in._

_“My god.”_

_Her hand flew to her mouth after realizing she had spoken._

_The man was covered in sweat, his chin stained in blood as rivers of red slid from his mouth. Sans shirt his chest was visibly burned from what H.G. would assume was a fire iron. He was panting, eyes deliriously wide as if the devil himself had entered. The pit of his mouth opened and let out a pained groan, bubbles of blood popping between dry, cracked lips. He murmured something that H.G. could only assume was “Help me.”_

_Eyes glued to the horror, H.G.’s head moved left then right, an unconscious refusal to acknowledge what she was witnessing. She couldn’t help him if she tried. She was the wife of a lawyer, not a physician._

_The man groaned again to reiterate his plea. He resorted to these grunts and nonverbal sounds because by then H.G. figured he lacked a tongue to speak._

_“I…” she stuttered, set on giving this man some kind of closure as to whether or not he would receive aid from her._

_“Helena, what a surprise.” A man clad in brown trousers, suspenders, and a loose white shirt rolled up to the elbows walked in from the en suite. His blonde hair slicked back perfectly without a single hair out of place, like he was on his way to an important court hearing. A dimpled chin and spreading cheeks to a smile were still as roguishly endearing as when his wife first met him. “We were not expecting you.”_

_Terror and rage had never been experienced simultaneously by H.G. up until that moment. The competing sensations of hot fury and a cold shiver encased her completely, sustaining her inability at reply. H.G.’s mouth opened, but her eyes were transfixed by the rag between his tainted hands. The red of the rag was the same color as the river of blood seeping from the victim’s mouth._

_Lewis strolled in until he reached the chair and the mangled body in it. He smiled most arrogantly. “I suppose we all know now why I’m late to dinner every night.”_

“Probability became truth. Clues and hints of his peculiar behavior turned into a bloodstained man on the edge of death and all because he split his share with a penniless brother in America.”

H.G. finally made eye contact with Myka. “My husband was a crook, you see. Black market antiquities. Every treasure from Shang Dynasty to the Gilded Age. Millionaire art dealers, the Italian mob, rare book collectors, they all sought out my husband’s… business – if one could call it that. As a lawyer Lewis had the connections, the resources to acquire the rarest of treasures. He would hire tomb raiders of any level of integrity in hunting down what was in demand at the time. Collectors will pay a heavy price for the smallest of trinkets no matter how much sand and time it has suffered. It is what paid for my livelihood; clothes, the finest food, excursions to Venice and Milan, lavish house décor that made the neighbors jealous. I received everything a woman could ever want…” H.G. looked away with creases of fury on her face as she sneered. “All bought and paid for by blood and treasure.

“That is when I realized my life was a lie. But it was too late to rectify my mistake. Two years into our marriage I was expecting and tied to him for the foreseeable future. A blessing and a curse – that is what I received for my 28th birthday. For a brief moment I allowed myself to feel happiness. I thought maybe Christina would be the key to bringing us together. Maybe the idea of fatherhood would have changed the error of his ways, stem the thirst for wealth. I thought he could be an honest man, if not for me at least then for our child. I was so very wrong. ‘We have a family to think about now,’ he reasoned. The bastard,” H.G. sneered.

_“We have a family to think about, Helena! This is no time to engage in selfish behavior! Do you really want the child to grow up without a father? Without a proper home? All just so you can punish me?”_

_“Don’t you dare imply my lack of feeling!” H.G. shouted, scaring off the last housekeeper within a half mile. “I AM thinking of my son or daughter. I am thinking of them this very minute. It is you who is the selfish one. You think more of your work than you do of me. How will it be any different with a child? Or do you plan on taking them behind the closed doors in this house so as to explain the screams that I and the housekeepers pretend not to hear?”_

_Lewis raised a finger in accusation. “You may not appreciate the lavish things afforded by my work, but my child will.”_

_“That is an awfully weighty assumption, Lewis,” remarked H.G. Hands drew to her hips with a defiance accrued over the months since stumbling upon a tongue-less man tied to a chair. Her chin went out. “Just whom do you think you will be fooling? If this child is anything like me it won’t be long before they see right through you.”_

_“Then tell me, Helena, if I am such a monster why haven’t you left yet? What has kept you from the fresh air of freedom, hm?”_

_“Do not ask questions you already know the answers to. I will not bring a child into this kind of world.”_

_Lewis surged forward and grabbed H.G.’s arm. Though not a painful grasp it was firm enough to make a point. “You forget yourself,” he hissed through clenched teeth. His eyes indicated to the slight bump under H.G.’s clothing. “That is mine and you will see to its protection. You so much as miss a meal –“_

_Arm ripped from her husband’s clutch, H.G. retreated a step, frown deepening. “If you think I intend to harm my unborn baby then you never did know me. When I said I wouldn’t bring a child into this kind of world I meant THIS HOUSE with YOU.”_

_“We shall see how firm you stand on the subject when the child is born and in need of expensive care.”_

_“There is nothing I do not have that can be used to provide for this child. I can give it the love and security, the education and morals... all devoid of hidden disadvantages. It is you, Lewis, who has nothing of value.”_

“Christina would have been the shackles that kept me prisoner there. He intended to use his own flesh and blood, not even born yet, in keeping me in that lie of a marriage. Any last scrape of affection I had for that man was dashed that night. But no matter how those two years dried up my emotion I had some left for the child growing inside me. I burned my regrets and cut loose the burdens of my past and faced forwards, towards a future I could provide for Christina.

“I remained in England and in the clutches of Lewis Webb for nine months. It was not safe to travel in my condition, no matter how keen I was on leaving. I would not put my child at risk just because I couldn’t put up with the bastard.”

Myka’s skin crawled at the thought of H.G. alone with that sack of shit. Anger boiled within her and threatened to unleash itself on the one responsible. “He didn’t hurt you or Christina, did he?” Myka swallowed in wait for the reply.

“I assure you, Lewis was never abusive.” From the easing frown H.G. knew she had just saved the woman some sort of pain. The relief in her emerald eyes caused H.G. to feel like a worthy treasure in her own right and for once in those many years to feel truly secure. Though a victim of deceit herself, Myka felt a need to protect her and Christina. Maybe that was why she made the decision to leave Chicago with them. “He never laid a hand on me or caused harm to our unborn child, but ever since we married he had been neglectful, cheating, and prejudiced.”

_The pages crinkled and flapped like the wings of a dove as they were waved in midair._

_“This is folly! This is scribbles and garbage! Quit these fantastical children’s tales and do some real work. Something that benefits society.”_

_“I will not submit to this childishness.” She leapt from the chair in her home study and stalked towards the papers hovering dangerously close to the fireplace. H.G.’s eyes moved furiously as they were fixed on the manhandled manuscript. “Give it to me! Lewis! This is my work!” Her life’s work. “Do I take your things and parade them around with ineptitude?”_

_“I live in the real world! Not in those dreamed up fantasies you tote on about.” Lewis strode away from the fire, easing the tension in his wife’s shoulders. “You exhaust me every night at the dinner table. Talk of invading Martians, time travel, a sleeping man who wakes up after 200 years… You write about the future like it’s just around the corner.”_

_“And you are a jealous man who never had a natural talent to bestow on those that would pay for it.”_

_“You are so full of yourself, Helena.”_

_“Scoff all you like. Take my work and pass it off as your own – I don’t care. But know this: this… folly as you call it WILL be on a shelf in every bookstore and it WILL be taken seriously.”_

_“This foolishness will not earn you one red cent.”_

_“Even if my work is criticized I would still feel successful. I would still feel the accomplishment of creating something on my own. You could never understand that. And I will not take literary advice from the likes of you.” H.G. chuckled darkly, shaking her head. “You… my husband who refuses to support me after the blind eye I have turned for you.”_

_Lewis whirled. Eyes narrowed threateningly. “Just what do you speak of?”_

_“Oh, what do I know? I’m just the wife of a lawyer.” At the man’s insistent growl H.G. turned from coy to grave in five seconds flat and explained, “The queer fellows whom you exchange bills with, the guest bedrooms that double as a prison for one or two turncoat business partners,” steering closer with deadliness that rivaled a serpent H.G. added coolly, “the countless paramours.”_

_“Who is the jealous party now?” Lewis recovered with a chortle. “But I forgot, you are not the type. Like your work you have too much integrity to get greedy.”_

_“I’ll take that as poorly delivered sarcasm. You always were frightful at it,” H.G. claimed, not missing a beat. “Unlike me you are the jealous type. Perhaps I will covet your things as you do mine.” A fine brow rose for effect._

_“What is that supposed to mean?”_

_The papers were snatched from his immobile grasp. Before departing, H.G. replied with a simple, “Make of it what you will.”_

“Lewis did not support my campaign to become a writer as he held to the tradition that women should not be as successful as their husbands. He knew I had a knack for the written word and begrudged my right to make a living on pure talent rather than his mode of deception. Later, I toiled through those nine months with the only expectation being the reward to bring my child into the world.”

H.G. smiled then. It was the most genuine expression of contentment Myka had ever witnessed from the woman.

“She was the most magnificent thing I ever saw. Any pain I was suffering then was cast out as soon as she opened her eyes. With her I had hope. With Christina we had a chance. She was nothing if not apt in timing. When I was in labor Lewis’ corruption was discovered by the U.S. authorities and he dashed. I found out later that he got mixed up in a deal gone bad. One of the looters he hired to steal an artifact from a dig in Egypt went rogue. Lewis’ buyers wanted payment and when they didn’t get it they hunted me down, thinking my capture would coax him from the shadows.” A chuckle emitted, dry and callous as her feelings for Lewis. “How wrong they would have been. The looter was American, and therefore wanted by the FBI. That is how I became indebted to the U.S. government and under the protection of the ever-impenetrable Mrs. Frederic you met this night. Once Christina was born we escaped that wretched life for the freedom I desired since I was a girl, the freedom my daughter deserved.”

“So your parents had nothing to do with your moving to America?” Myka asked. “You weren’t banished?”

“Oh, I was banished,” H.G. replied, resentfully. “They did not approve of my leaving Lewis, especially with a child on the way. It is true that they were not privy to his black market dealings, but then I couldn’t tell them, could I? I couldn’t tell anyone. Lewis and his _acquaintances_ would not think twice about getting rid of me – all for their precious baubles. No, my father and mother were not sympathetic to my plight. They gave me an ultimatum: stand beside my husband like the property I am or set off never to see a pence. It was no choice. I left for America with the help of the U.S. government, and Mrs. Frederic set me up with a new identity and a place in Chicago. There, I interleaved myself in society as Emily Lake and raised Christina as a single mother. I never saw Lewis again. And my parents refused to speak to me, not that I attempted correspondence. I later found out after my divorce was final that I had been ousted from my family’s will. It would seem that my not receiving a red cent was meant quite literally.”

_“Here is your new license and registration. I hope you are not unfavorable to the name of ‘Emily.’”_

_“If I am, may I request a change?”_

_“Of course not,” Mrs. Frederic replied without looking up. She put the items in the manila envelope and handed them over._

_With a fussing toddler in one arm H.G. took the envelope with her other. “And what if I should need to contact you?”_

_“The need shall not arise, I assure you.”_

_“You say that quite a bit, Mrs. Frederic.”_

_“Does it comfort you?”_

_“No.”_

_“Then perhaps this new apartment will.” The woman’s heels clicked across the hard wood floors, between boxes both empty and brimming with possessions (mostly books and children’s toys), around a charming coffee table, and before a humming refrigerator. She peeked into the master bedroom to find all the essential furniture including a crib set up not far from the bed. ”I see you have made progress in making yourself at home.”_

_“I make an attempt,” the new mother admitted. A shadow of weariness seemed to grow darker over her expression. “It is not easy to adorn a flat and search for a job while going on two hours of sleep.”_

_The child’s cry was nothing if not on cue. Christina’s little fists clubbed the air as she wailed and squirmed in her mother’s arms to some unknowable complaint. The woman’s heart broke at her child’s every displeasure. She wanted so much to be what Christina needed and at the same time not be the parents she herself was raised by. She tried so hard. She read every book in reach, sung every lullaby her badly tuned voice could muster, and changed diapers hourly when it, apparently, wasn’t necessary. Yet Christina was never satisfied. A confused H.G. shifted her hold on the toddler and tried bouncing her on her hip._

_“At least now you don’t have to waste time looking for a job,” Mrs. Frederic said over the rising cries._

_“What do you mean?”_

_She gestured to the envelope getting gnawed on by a now content little infant. “That phone number I gave you belongs to a well-respected superintendent of the Chicago Public School System. You should expect to be hired immediately.”_

_“How are you so sure they will accept my qualifications?” Christina wailed when her chew toy was taken away. H.G. winced and quickly gave it back to her. “The school might not have need of a single working mother who just arrived from a foreign country.”_

_“In my line of work it is best not to answer questions of that nature. Just smile and exemplify your passion for the position available.” Satisfied with her walk-thru, Mrs. Frederic rounded to meet H.G. face to face. “Do I need to go over the rules again?”_

_Clearly past the lure of the envelope Christina’s stewing turned to full on bawling._

_“No,” H.G. replied, overwhelmed by her new responsibilities, “you have explained them quite exhaustively.”_

_“I’m glad we understand each other.” Mrs. Frederic finished with a curt nod and turned for the door. Hand on the knob, she paused, melding into the shadow of the hallway. “Good luck with your new life, Emily Lake. I recommend you start it by investing in several pacifiers.”_

“In a way,” H.G. mused, “the change was welcome. A new identity was just what I needed as I was number two on some wealthy secret society’s hit list. After settling in Chicago I filed for divorce immediately. Lewis contested, at first, but then he had himself to think about. One of the deals I made in order to leave England was to give Lewis up to the authorities. For the first time in a long time I could shed light on the lies I had been kept prisoner by. It was liberating. I denied him custody of Christina in every sense of the word. I would not accept money or birthday gifts or Christmas cards. I broke all ties with Lewis; I did it to give my Christina her best chance. Not that he wanted her. He had more important things to deal with, namely his trial.

“And here Christina and I have been living. I got a job as a high school physics teacher – easily perhaps because of my proper British diction…”

“Right,” Myka joked, having heard plenty of expletives from that British mouth.

“… and I had Christina enrolled in the best school my salary could afford. Witness protection was not without its hindrances. We could not leave the city or speak to family or past friends. I got over it quickly, while Christina grew up wonderfully ignorant of the father and grandparents who deserted her.”

H.G. sighed at the end of her speech. She was pale in the moonlight, paler than her complexion usually allowed. Myka noticed deeper lines and sagging skin. The story took a toll on the woman, yet Myka discerned a lightness in her frame. She breathed easier in the air cleared with words kept from the world and the people she cared about. Myka couldn’t imagine the sheer relief of that. H.G. had unloaded a weight of truth disclosed to only two people in the world: Mrs. Frederic and now Myka. It was an honor to be that special in H.G.’s eyes, knowing that H.G. didn’t have to tell her no matter if their friendship was at stake. It was also a burden to hold such dangerous truths, which brought to mind H.G.’s insistence that there upcoming _adventure_ would be anything but. H.G. may be protected by the FBI, but she was still being hunted. And, therefore, Myka was a target now.

Of the two women, Myka was least skilled in art of the written word. She was struck speechless at the end of H.G.’s story, but not for lack of clemency. Words would not come, so Myka laid her hand on H.G.’s, bringing the clasped bundle from hiding and into the open air. There on the picnic bench their hands embraced, a slow trumpet playing in the background. There in the darkness of their knoll emerald and brown looked out towards the stage, shining with hope. There, without words just the support of a sincere, warm hand, H.G. knew she had been forgiven.

* * *

Warm welcome came in the form of a sign entitled, “Leena’s Bed and Breakfast.” The quaint Victorian-era home’s 3.5 story tower could be seen from afar. Its Romanesque Revival style sparked a glint in Myka’s eye. The mansard roofing and festooned iron railings were taken note of as well. For however grand it seemed, though, the bed and breakfast was still just a homestead, a beautiful reconstruction established in the middle of nowhere.

Their government plated SUV rolled to a halt before its steps. Christina was first to jump out, clearly the less groggy of the three passengers. H.G. and Myka followed sluggishly, cracking their backs and biting back the gripes of a four hour drive from Sioux Falls Regional Airport. Once their baggage was out of the car their suited government escorts drove off. The three strangers were left at the stairs of the B&B with nothing but questions and growling stomachs.

“Mummy,” Christina groaned, “I’m hungry.”

H.G. placed a hand on her squirming daughter’s shoulder and brought her closer for protection. This town of Univille was the only destination they had visited since arriving in the United States eight years ago. They were miles from a home that was home no longer and Mrs. Frederic – a woman who did not seem to age and who knew more about H.G.’s predicament than H.G. herself – insisted that this B&B was their safe haven. H.G. would not take a stranger’s word over it and had no plans on staying one night in a commune. Christina would just have to bite the bullet until they could get their hands on uncorrupted food.

The screen door opened then to a tall, muscular man in jeans and an Ohio State t-shirt. “Omph, Aaareee!” He dragged the half-eaten cookie from his mouth and shouted more clearly, “Artie, they’re here!”

Sneakers slapping the porch, he jumped down the flight of steps with ease and stuck out his cookie free hand.

“Hey,” he smiled brilliantly around the crumbs, “I’m Pete.”

Myka gave a side-long glance at H.G. but before mother could hold back child Christina took the initiative.

“Hello, my name is Christina.”

“Nice to meet you.”

They shook hands cordially. It was a long hand shake for Christina was sizing this new stranger up like a science experiment while Pete was taking it all in stride. It was not every day that he was thrown off by the gentlewomanly behavior of a little girl.

“Which one is Mom?” He looked back and forth at the two women with a lascivious glint in his eye and a boyish grin.

“Helena Wells,” the older of the two replied.

Pete’s brows rose as he flashed his signature grin. “Pleasure.”

She took his hand with a firm grip. H.G. held it long enough for the message to get across.

_Hit on me or hurt my daughter and you won’t get this hand back._

There was a twitch in his smile and he retrieved his hand, flexing it subtly. He finally turned to Myka. After giving her a once over his eyes widened slightly and head inclined back in astonishment. “You must be the professor,” he said.

She bit the inside of her cheek. “Myka Bering,” she introduced herself.

“Meeka?”

“Myka.”

“Mika?”

“ _My_ -ka,” she stressed, a single brow arched.

“Glad we got that out of the way. Now if you ladies will follow me… on to the tour!”

Pete traveled up the steps with as much if not more enthusiasm as when he came down them, popped the last of the cookie in his mouth and raised the door open. He motioned them to enter with a flourish of his arm.

Myka cast an exasperated look at H.G. who was less set on sharing it. Unlike Myka, H.G. could tell when someone was kidding around and was able to transform the childish behavior into more worthwhile sport besides exasperation. Like amusement. H.G. quirked a smile at her friend and led the way into the B&B with Christina on her heels. Myka let out a sigh. It seemed she would have to loosen up for this little adventure. She rolled her shoulders and then her eyes before stalking past Pete without returning his high five.

Kierkegaard once said, ‘To venture causes anxiety, but not to venture is to lose one's self.’ Ever since leaving Chicago Myka felt herself muttering the phrase over and over again in her head. It seemed from the sprightliness of their new host and the growing unease in the pit of her stomach she would need to remember the words to her last.


	5. Chapter 5

There was not much of a tour. Pete got them halfway into the study when a series of mumbles and disgruntled shouts put a halt to the sightseeing. Myka wouldn’t normally see out the orders of a total stranger but that booming voice had a way of lighting a fire under her ass.

“My name is Arthur Nielsen. I assume Mrs. Frederic did not elaborate on the specifics of why you are here?”

“You would be correct,” H.G. replied with an incline of her head.

Myka shrugged her shoulders. “She didn’t mention much.”

“Yeah,” Pete chimed in, “she does that.”

“Before we go any further, Mr. Nielsen, I would appreciate it if we do not go further into the details in front of my eight-year-old daughter.”

“Yes, yes of course. Leena!”

At that moment a short, curly haired woman with dark skin and a calming presence swept through. H.G. took one look at her and instantly knew she could trust her daughter with this person. She couldn’t explain it, but the gentle eyes and smile put her at ease despite their circumstances of why they had to be there in the first place.

“This is Leena, owner of this bed and breakfast.”

“She’s in on all the strange voodoo that we got going on,” Pete translated.

“I’m a sort of associate,” Leena translated back. “I possess special gifts that help our team.”

As if anticipating Leena’s statement, Pete’s laughter let loose. He chatted Myka up on the sidelines. “Not _those_ kind of gifts if you know what I mean.”

“Pete!”

“Yeah, right,” he muttered, getting back on track. He addressed Christina as she was led to the kitchen. “Try the cookies. They’re phenomenal!” Because food was what mattered in that moment.

“Do you always have to act like a child?” Artie asked genuinely. “Even in front of a child?”

Pete’s eyes bugged out in affront. “What?” he whined.

“You’re going to scare them off before I even have a chance to brief them.”

“Well, if they just had a cookie first…“

“This is no time to think with your stomach. I have to remind you…“

“… before you went all Joseph Stalin on them.“

“… every time! I can’t even count the number of artifact disturbances because of your appetite.”

“I mean, look at them. They’re staring at us like we’ve lost our minds.”

“You actually thought you could _eat_ “Original” Original Ray’s Pizza…“

“And we probably have gone a little loopy as of late seeing as it’s just you and I.”

“… but never mind that it is 54 years past its expiration date!”

“It’s like Warehouse 13 meets _The Shining_ – “

Artie cut him off with a raised finger and dagger eyes.

“Heeeeeeere’s –“

“No.”

“Just one quote?”

“No.” He closed the discussion with a severe, “ _Behave_.”

H.G. and Myka watched it all unravel like a tennis match taking place in an episode of _The Twilight Zone._

Artie saw the blank stares and the slow backward retreat towards the exit and at once detected their apprehension. He opened his hands in an offering of friendly sanity, adding a smile for good measure. “It’s just Pete and I… and Leena here. It’s been a while since we’ve had other agents, or guests.”

“A long time,” affirmed his colleague with a devastating face.

“Comforting,” H.G. muttered under her breath.

“Why don’t we just get down to business, shall we?”

The two women took a moment to weigh their options. Under the wild eyebrows and gruff exterior the older man seemed to be a rather stern, paternal figure. Clad in sneakers, pants, and a cardigan he gave off the vibe of someone who put up a disgruntled front to hide his cute, cuddly inner nature. The fellow named Pete was clearly around his 30s yet had the emotional range of a 12 year old. He did not give off the ax murderer vibe, but would certainly quote from various ax murderer flicks. Myka detected a declining stiffness in his posture; perhaps ex-military.

All in all, on first appearance they looked like nice unstable people who just want to help. Myka gave H.G. the nod and they sat down side by side on one of the sofas.

Artie started off with introductions and credentials. He and Agent Pete Lattimer worked at a top secret government facility which housed dangerous artifacts they or others before them have hunted down and retrieved. The life of a Warehouse agent was a hard life; everything work-related had to stay confidential from family, friends, and significant others. Pete mentioned off-handedly that most of their field agents either end up dead, missing, or sent on a one way trip to the loony bin.

It sounded exactly as a top secret governmental agency should – minus the static bags and purple gloves. H.G. filed away her curiosity on the scientific properties of these artifact baggies for later.

As evidenced in the previous two-way conversation, H.G. and Myka struggled to follow. Pete and Artie were the only two agents stationed at the Warehouse. Though equal in their abilities to ‘snag, bag, and tag’ Artie was the custodian of the facility and ‘boss’ of Pete. When asked who Artie’s superior was his partner spoke up with the smart ass delivery of “Mrs. F,” followed by “dun, dun, duuun!”

When Artie arrived at the crucial point of why they were all there, H.G. discreetly pulled the other woman’s hand in hers. It was as natural as breathing and leant a bit of comfort as well as assurance that Myka was in the same boat, too. Her head might be swimming with questions and that sofa might be scratchier than the one in Chicago, but she needed to feel something solid, something real in that moment. Because besides Christina, Myka was the only one she trusted.

“I assume you both are familiar with the Rosetta Stone, is that correct?”

H.G. nodded.

“Issued in 196 BC,” Myka recalled from memory, “it was the third Memphis decree of King Ptolemy V’s accomplishments and the rewards honored by the gods. The order was inscribed on a large slab made of black basalt and weighing in at just under a ton. The three texts are identical, representing two languages, Greek and Egyptian, and three scripts, Greek, hieroglyphic, and Demotic.” At Pete’s odd stare she explained with a single shoulder shrug, “This is my area of expertise.”

Pete shook his head. “Whatever floats your boat.”

Myka continued the lecture as if she didn’t hear him. She defined the stone’s discovery according to date, place, and circumstances. The discovery occurred around a tumultuous period in Egypt when British and Ottoman troops clashed with Napoleon’s army in 1799. Not far from the town of Rashid, the stone was uncovered at a temple in the Nile Delta. French archaeologists were the first to conduct tests on the find, verifying its authenticity and spreading the word to European scholars. After the French surrendered, the stone was taken from Alexandria to the British Museum where it was still on display to that day.

“So you are saying my ex-husband was hiring out tomb raiders to find the Rosetta Stone?” H.G. looked at Artie like his hair was on fire. “I should think he needn’t have gone far if it is encased at the British Museum. Lewis was not the brightest lawyer but he was not a complete prat.”

Artie’s finger wagged in the air. “Except it’s not. What lies on display within a clear case for all tourists to see is not the _actual_ Rosetta Stone.”

“It’s a fake?” Myka gaped. “But that’s impossible! The British Museum would know! And there’s no way to make a switch. It’s only ever left its place twice; once during World War I and again in 1972 to the Louvre for the 50th anniversary of Champollion’s _Lettre_.”

Everything in Myka’s experience convinced her that this man was a liar. The Rosetta Stone had been in England for decades ever since its delivery from Alexandria. There was no way a copy could have passed unnoticed under the noses of historians, curators, scientists… The stone had undergone hundreds of tests upon its arrival… Radiometric dating would have found discrepancies in isotopes, and decay rates. Preservation measures were taken yearly. It was impossible! Unthinkable!

“In any case, the Rosetta Stone is still out there,” Artie rubbed his hands together for the last reveal, “along with its missing piece.”

“The top left corner,” Myka approved. She stared off trying to picture the larger of the two portions that had broken off – why, no one could explain. It could be that the stone sustained damage in transit to the Rashid temple it was found in, or the decay of years and weather, or perhaps it was mishandled by some naïve treasure hunters before its discovery. No matter the authenticity of the British Museum’s stone, Myka would agree that the missing piece was indeed out there – in fragments or very much intact.

“The Rosetta Stone itself possesses properties that are not entirely comprehendible to the public,” explained Artie. He nudged a finger to the bridge of his spectacles and continued. “That is how this case started. You see, in 1801 just before the British took the stone from Alexandria the current Warehouse at the time was able to snag it and switch it out with a very convincing copy. The artifact, as we call it, had been held at Warehouse 11 in Moscow until it mysteriously disappeared from the shelves. Its whereabouts have eluded successive agents for years, but every once and a while it pops up. And due to its supernatural capabilities a mysterious occurrence always follows.”

“Listen to this,” Pete told their guests, dully. “It’s _riveting_.”

“Will you let me tell the story?” Artie snapped. He turned his attention back to the patient H.G. and Myka. His fingers met and interlaced before him. “Whoever so touches the stone is imbued with the power to speak any language the stone has acquired. Since its unearthing in 1799 and the subsequent years after it went missing from Warehouse 11 it has changed hands – an _insurmountable_ number of hands.” Himself overwhelmed by the likelihood (and he had read the file over a dozen times annually), his hand struck his forehead. “Think of all the languages it contains: I mean… Hebrew, Armenian, French, Portuguese… It could have even passed through the hands of a third century farm laborer before it was even discovered! Pre-Coptic Egyptian!”

His partner crossed his arms as he leaned against the door frame. “Riveting,” stated with subdued enthusiasm.

“However, it is not known whether the missing piece has the same power, if any at all. That’s what makes this case so dangerous. Anyone in possession of both pieces will be a formidable opponent, even if the missing portion has no power. The Rosetta Stone, completely intact, would result in highly unstable consequences.”

Artie took a breath, shifted comfortably on the sofa opposite his guests and continued. “Which brings us to why you’re here. The wealthy benefactor who hired your ex-husband has come out from hiding. He or she wants this stone and thinks if they capture H.G. they can get Lewis Webb to talk. This person has help in numbers, I’m sure, and not the friendly kind.”

“What makes you – or this mysterious benefactor – think I hold any power over Lewis?” H.G. asked. “We are divorced. We haven’t spoken in eight years. How could you know I will be of any real use?”

For the first time since meeting him, Artie looked unsure. “Well, we don’t. You see, this case has been ongoing since it’s disappearance in 1825. Every Warehouse agent since has been tasked with hunting it down. I myself have been searching many years. And when you were involved in a possible lead Mrs. Frederic entrusted me with your protection. I’ve been monitoring your location in the event that the artifact revealed itself.”

“So you’ve been clocking my movements ever since I arrived in the U.S.?” H.G. was a bit appalled by the information. She had been in witness protection, so it shouldn’t have been a complete surprise how little privacy she had a right to. “Well,” she sighed, accepting the past like she always did and subsequently brushing it off like pesky dust, “I suppose it is a pleasure finally meeting my protector, but I still do not quite understand why my presence is necessary. If Chicago was not safe why not relocate my daughter and I to another city? If the artifact is dangerous then this warehouse is the last place we should be.”

Fingers fiddling, Artie’s eyes shifted slightly. “You are a viable piece to this puzzle we intend on solving.”

Tuning out of the conversation, Myka’s eyes searched blankly at the floor, working it all out in her highly analytical brain. “You brought H.G. here to lure the suspect into divulging information. It was perfectly safe in Chicago from the beginning,” she deduced, the realization dawning on her. The danger that H.G. and Christina had been placed in marched to the forefront. “You bastard,” she muttered, her eyes not yet having met the insult’s target.

From the rise in his furry brows, Artie appeared quite taken aback by the accusation. He was familiar with such outright contempt, but it had been a while, to say the least.

Pete cautioned with a hand motion and a, “Now, now.”

“I was bait?” H.G. scoffed.

“Of course you were,” Myka replied, her attention now on the ‘bastard’, “this was the only way they could track the perpetrator and keep you in their custody.” She addressed Artie with narrowed eyes. “But how do you plan on capturing them and acquiring the stone while protecting her in the process? Or is she just collateral damage?”

“All Warehouse agents accept the possible risks of the job.”

“But I am no such thing!” H.G. contended. “I am a lowly, now American citizen who is supposed to be in hiding from an apparently very dangerous object. I am not equipped nor authorized to deal with any of this!”

“Which is why Mrs. Frederic thought it was a good idea to grant both of you the position of temporary agents.” The idleness in Artie’s voice showed how averse he was to the plan.

“What?” Myka and Pete gaped simultaneously.

H.G. was just as disturbed. “Do we even have a choice?”

“Well, yes. Technically, I do not have the authority to force provisional access to the Warehouse on you,” he tipped his head and drawled, “however, both of you are in possession of knowledge that would be quite useful in solving this case. If you decline then coming here was for nothing, essentially.”

Myka almost threw up her hands. “Mrs. Frederic couldn’t tell us this in Chicago?”

“There are procedures,” Artie replied with a simple shrug.

“When were you going to tell _me_ this, Artie?”

Artie’s glare locked the man up instantly. “Not now, Pete.”

Chewing her lip in thought, Myka was struck by a technicality that had been bugging her since they arrived. “Why isn’t the FBI involved in this? Wasn’t it they who struck the deal with H.G. and brought her here for her safety?”

“You should know by now, Dr. Bering, they were never involved in the first place. Would _you_ trust the FBI with this information?”

Pete hands made a wide sweeping motion to make his boss’s point clear. “Supernatural artifacts aren’t exactly under the purview of the FBI… or any other government anagram.”

Myka looked over at Pete. “Isn’t ‘purview’ an overwhelming word usage for you Agent… Lattimer, is it?”

“It is,” Artie cut in gruffly before Pete could reply. “Anyway, the Warehouse is more knowledgeable and superiorly equipped to handle effects of this nature. You are safer here than in any location approved by the FBI.” Artie leaned forward slowly, anticipating his guests would accept the offer. “The choice is entirely up to you.”

The two women fell silent. It was a lot to sink in. It was a lot of _crazy_ to sink in and H.G. was an imaginative writer who specialized in the original. Myka, however, was a realist and serial skeptic. She couldn’t trust the information because her experience told her it was impossible. They just met these weirdoes, after all; how could she expect these agents had their best interests or would keep them from harm? The only person she could trust was sitting less than a foot away and whose hand was comfortably warm and tangible in her own. H.G. was something she could see and touch. That was something worth believing.

“Well,” H.G. sighed, sharing an honest look with Myka, “we were told this would be an adventure.”

Myka’s hand was steadfast in H.G.’s throughout the whole briefing. She stayed like she did that night in the park, offering a thumb’s caress when the raven-haired woman appeared stiff with ire and a squeeze when all seemed hopeless.

Pete and Artie shared their own look before the unspoken language going on. When Myka added her consent to H.G.’s Artie let out a breath he didn’t know was being held back.

“Now, Pete and I have some preliminary research to do before any crucial strategy is put in place. Your assistance is not necessary at this time, so you are free to settle into your rooms for the time being.”

H.G. and Myka nodded dumbly. The stress of the trip and the abundant information just dished had quite a numbing effect.

“Come along, Agent Lattimer.”

Pete dragged his heels behind his boss, shoulders sagging and stomach grumbling (again). “All work and no play makes Pete a dull boy.”

* * *

The contents of Myka’s suitcase found a place in the dresser drawers of her assigned bedroom. It was a temporary solution because Myka loathed the sight of wrinkles in her shirts and this was, after all, going to be a short stay. There was nothing to back up that supposition, though. If anything, time spent with the Warehouse agents would be indefinite. Hunting down an artifact that shouldn’t be acquirable, luring a wealthy and powerful art thief, these were just two objectives on their docket and objectives that required extensive research and travel.

Myka had always wanted to travel. In her college years she was granted the rare opportunity to study in Greece, but that was before she chose a path of scholarly research. Despite the circumstances (dangerous as they were) Myka would finally get the chance to see the world. And she would do so with the most worthwhile companion, H.G.

Her lips drew into a wide smile. She liked traveling with H.G. Alone, the trip would have been a sullen thing marked by stale pittances for peanuts, a dreadful selection of inflight films, and pillow stealing seatmates. H.G., however, provided many distractions, and she was no pillow moocher. On their flight from Chicago they had played a quiet game of chess. Truly a test of wills, the semi-egomaniacal H.G. closed three out of four games. She continued her wicked streak over Mason City, Iowa with a game of gin rummy. Myka could only imagine the challenges the woman posed on subsequent trips.

Fingers touched her mouth and Myka realized her smile only grew. She immediately clamped down on the expression.

_What is wrong with me? This is no time for fun and games. This is dangerous._

Time was bided. She unpacked, unsuccessfully attempted a nap, and twiddled her thumbs before knocking on the door next to hers.

A head, waist high and darkened with smooth hair, popped out. “Myka!”

“Hey, I just wanted to see how you guys were doing with unpacking.”

“I’m all done!” Christina revealed proudly. “But Mummy does not wish to leave the room… unaccompanied or otherwise.”

“Christina!” came the reprimand from within.

The girl rolled her eyes and opened the door wider for Myka.

Assumed on the bed were stacks of clothing in order of color and size (the larger belonging to mother and the smaller to daughter). H.G. was not one for methodology. She felt the symmetry too constricting to her boundless imagination. There was never a time or place H.G. would subject her unrestricted mind to the measured, tedious life of order. Or so she thought.

Though Myka did not know it, H.G. had been folding, sorting, and refolding garments, and trying out various sites for their belongings. The stress of travel, of their safety, of imminent doom disguised as adventure had gotten to the woman so much so that the anxiety seeped to her very bones. She had to keep herself busy, or else the genuineness of their situation would sink in further.

The second their eyes met Myka detected the vexations behind her friend’s unusual behavior. H.G.’s face was pale in spite of the buzzing about, paler than her usual ivory glow. Worry lines framed her eyes, listless as they were. H.G. looked as if she had been put through the wringer and then back again.

“I brought some music along,” Myka told Christina, “why don’t you go to my room, sweetie, and pick something out for later. We can give it a listen to before bed.”

“Really? Oh, I can’t wait!”

H.G. didn’t so much as look up from the already pristine blue button-down before prompting, “Christina.”

“Oh, right,” the girl turned back to lob a gracious “thank you, Myka,” before scurrying next door.

Chuckling to the door slamming closed, Myka placed a hand atop her breast, sensing how big her heart grew every time that child so much as spoke her name.

Silence followed, the only reprieve being the rustling of clothes and blow to wayward black strands.

“You don’t want to leave,” Myka echoed Christina’s words.

Hands did not stop fumbling. H.G. shrunk as if under the weight of a storm shadowing her pale features. She did not reply. Words were a fickle thing when they were awash in foreboding.

“Stop.” Myka’s hand lay upon the frantic folding. H.G.’s hand stilled. “Christina’s gone. There’s no one here you have to put up a front for.”

“I cannot let you…”

“What? See you freak out? I think it would be an appropriate reaction considering.”

H.G. relinquished her methods with a sigh. “I lived in the same location for eight years with the knowledge that it was not only my home but would one day be my final resting place. I am little prepared for this, Myka.”

“But you’re not alone. You have Christina,” Myka said. Her heart sped up. She hid the palms that were no doubt collecting perspiration “And you have me.”

“I am so glad of it. Myka, you do not fully realize what your company means to me, and not just at present.” H.G. took in her new bedroom with relief now that Myka was a fixture of it. “Your support in this is everything. I do not often come across individuals worthy of my trust. It is a difficult thing when the name you go by is not your own and the past is nothing but a memory of mistakes influenced by unfaithful friends. That my reservations perish at the mere sight of you makes you quite unique.”

“I was not expecting that.” Myka scratched her forehead, feeling slightly out of place in the conversation. People’s praise always made her develop a case of unease. It was a rare and almost unseemly gift. Her head cocked and she gazed oddly. “Although my image of you is not as it once was. It’s changing, and so are my expectations.”

“So you are…?”

It took a moment for Myka to grasp what was not spoken, but like all things with H.G. understanding eventually came easy. “Freaking out? Yeah,” she snorted. “You think this is easy for me? My life has been as reclusive as your eight years in Chicago. Do you think the trip here was a comfortable one? We’ve hardly shared a conversation lasting more than five sentences. I haven’t known what to say after that night in the park.”

“But you do now?” Myka’s chin dipped in approval. H.G. smirked at the woman’s plot and drawled, “That is why you’ve baited my daughter with opera and are standing there prepared to share your discomforts.”

“Actually, there is nothing I’ve felt the past 24 hours that comes close to discomfort. And the Puccini collection I packed is hardly bait. Christina was itching to get out of this room.”

_What an unfamiliar feat._

Since she could walk the girl was like a magnet to the booted heels of H.G. There was nothing up until now that would have lured little Christina from her mother’s side. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Crossing her arms, Myka raised a brow. “That’s not what I meant.”

“She thinks this a vacation. Her first, in fact. And I wish it _was_ a mere trip out of town. I wish I could say there will be theme parks and sightseeing, dinners out and sleeping in till afternoon… but I cannot. I must tell her why we left home and will probably never return. I have to tell my own daughter why I’ve lied to her for her whole life.”

“And when you tell her you did it to protect her she will understand. Christina is a smart girl, the brightest child I have ever met, and she loves you so much. She can take this,” Myka affirmed, nodding.

“This is not just about Christina,” H.G. said quietly. “I was guarding my daughter’s safety by not revealing why we had to leave her father, but I was protecting you by…”

“By what?”

“I… I knew I could have told you,” H.G. confessed with the fluttering of lids. It was an implied apology, yet she couldn’t help but anticipate backlash and so she hugged her arms for her own worthless protection. “I wanted to, in fact. There were so many times when I thought I’d lose control and come out with it all. But that did not happen. I purposely hid the truth because when you found out – and I knew you would figure it out, eventually – you would feel betrayed and leave. The truth is not a sure thing, Myka. _My_ truth is not a sure thing and it is unsafe. I am not safe, not anymore. I … I should appreciate it if you would do me a favor.”

Myka replied before a breath was taken. “Anything.”

“I should like it if you would take Christina.”

“… What do you mean?” Myka’s face contorted in misunderstanding. H.G was starting to scare her. A lot. “What do you mean _take_ her, Emily?”

“My name is not Emily!” H.G. burst out, arms straightening to her sides and ending in fists. “It is Helena, or H.G., or Ms. Wells. Emily is not my name. It never was.” The fire in her eyes extinguished. They were pleading now. Her mouth slack, face growing paler, H.G. was actually pleading. “Take Christina away from here. Keep her safe until this is all over. I don’t know when that will be. I just need to know she is with someone I trust.”

Myka was already shaking her head. “I can’t believe we are having this conversation. I can’t believe you are asking this of me. Do… do you really think I am capable of taking care of a child? A-and she hates me! It took forever for her to warm up to me and even now… I don’t know what kids are like! Their feelings can change on a dime if you so much as take away their… their toy or whatever!” Myka sputtered. She was grabbing fists-fulls of her hair in worry. The sudden realization hit her that she was actually freaking the hell out.

“She loves you, Myka. Don’t you see it? She will not go with anyone else.”

Wincing at the gentle tone and the words that came with it, Myka waved her hand at the logic. “No, I’m not taking her. I’m not qualified and I’m not her mother. _You_ are, so step up and be that for her. Get over this irrational fear of abandonment and stop pushing away the people who want to help.”

What needed to be said felt stuck in Myka. It was difficult to grasp the concept because she spent years keeping it buried. Time did not heal wounds; it just opened them up with every blundering phone call and holiday visit lasting shorter than promised. Myka knew that through and through, and H.G. had to be told the same.

Scrambling for the words, she fixed her stern, emerald eyes on H.G. and unearthed some sound advice. “Sending her away will not fix anything,” she calmly instructed, “and it sure as hell will not ease the guilt. If your solution is to keep her from your true self then Christina will come to resent you, trust me. It would ruin your relationship with your daughter. I know that’s not what you want.”

“I must tell her,” she stared off at the wall and the little girl behind it, “don’t I?”

“Your world will not end, H.G.” The other woman sighed at the way Myka said her name – her _real_ name – for the first time. She couldn’t help but notice how relief finally settled in for H.G. after the two syllables were spoken, and how _right_ they felt on her own lips. “It will just be beginning.”

* * *

When Myka told Christina that her mother wanted to speak with her the girl went obediently. There was no need to wish her luck or warn her to go easy on H.G. no matter how frustrating the news sounded. Since meeting Christina, Myka instantly recognized where H.G.’s motherly nature came from. The two were inseparable. They loved each other to a point where it couldn’t be measured. It was hard to imagine them apart much less arguing. It was what gave Myka the strength to not worry herself into a frenzy.

_I’m not worried. I’m not worried. I’m not worried._

Myka paced on the patio outside the B&B. The nail she was biting was getting shorter with each passing minute. She was worried, but not for Christina. H.G. had an ego the size of the Grand Canyon. She carried herself with such poise and grace; there was no crack or barb capable of deterring her.

But where H.G. excelled in self-confidence, she lacked in self-discipline. Her emotions stretched far and wide and if not controlled meant careless results. When Christina suffered her asthma attack, H.G. went on a rampage, cursing the store manager’s “lollygagging” in hailing a timely rescue and threatening to file a lawsuit for gross negligence. It was by sheer luck that the man decided not to sue the distressed mother for pinning him to the wall by the scruff of the neck. Her rage was understandable. She was a mother protecting her baby, which made her all the more reckless. H.G. did not know her own limits. Myka did, as evidenced by her nail trimming faux pas.

The shrill ring jerked Myka back to the present and her anxious fingers flew from her lips to her cell phone.

_“Oh my god! You picked up! Are you hurt? Did you get in a car accident? Are you stranded? Myka? Are you there? Ohmygodshe’sdead!”_

“Claudia, calm down! I’m not dead!”

There was a relieved sigh and then a cough from the other line before, _“Clearly.”_

“I’m sorry I didn’t call you when we arrived. You’re in my office, aren’t you?”

 _“I’m keeping your computer warm until you get back,”_ Claudia rushed out. _“On to what matters… How have things gone in this secret, undisclosed location?”_

“It’s been kind of crazy around here. That’s kind of the reason I forgot to check in.”

_“Busy crazy or psych institution kind of crazy?”_

“Well, our hosts do not seem to be all there, then again what would I expect from people who… well, people whose work is completely out there?”

_“Wow, Mykes, you’re going to have to be a tad more specific.”_

“I’m afraid I can’t. Confidential government stuff.”

_“Ooo, top secret? Let me guess… you are in Nevada, behind the fence that warns, ‘No Trespassing. Restricted Area Number 51.’”_

Myka laughed. “Not even close, Claud.”

_“I see, I see. Kicking it back with the Pope at the Vatican Archives?”_

“I wish.”

 _“Come on,”_ Claudia groaned in anguish. _“Tell me, please? Confidential is my middle name, homes!”_

“Out of the question. It’s not even safe for us as it is.”

_“Hold up, I thought this little vacay was to get you guys TO safety? It was the whole reason why you insisted on tagging along; you didn’t even trust this Frederic lady alone with Christina and Emily – whoops, H.G.”_

“Mrs. Frederic isn’t the only one I’m worried about. There are more players in this than we realized, and I have a feeling they’re going to be more of a problem than the people who are helping us.”

 _“Sooo,”_ Claudia dragged out, and Myka could imagine her smart ass mind at work, _“you’re telling me leaving Chicago was for nothing?”_

“Not exactly,” Myka managed. She squinted through her explanation. “I mean, I am getting to know Em – H.G. – a little better. The real H.G. Now that we’re stuck here with each other my understanding of her has come easier.”

_“You know, it’s very big of you to forgive H.G. for serving you a pack of lies.”_

“It was a harmless white lie,” Myka defended.

_“Yeah, a harmless white lie that just happened to encompass her whole reason for escaping trust funding mummy and daddy and convict husband. Do you see where I’m going with this?”_

“She’s been through a lot, Claudia, and I don’t blame her for a fabricated life which was created to protect her and her daughter. She didn’t say anything for my sake as well.”

_“How do you see that?”_

“Well…” Myka bit her lip in thought, memorizing what H.G. had said and the way her honesty shown through in steady eye contact and a clear voice while saying it. “She thought the hurt of betrayal would be less painful than the harm that would have come to me if I had known from the start. I’m not saying I would have taken the information and sought justice, but she was right that I would have been reckless enough to do something about it.”

_“And now you’re in the thick of it. Either way, with or without the truth, it would lead you to this same exact position. If H.G. told you from the get-go I’m sure you would have hunted that ex-husband down and kicked his ass, attracting his wealthy pals, and, thereby, putting you in some serious jeopardy. Kind of ironic, isn’t it? How inevitable you two are?”_

“Have you been hanging around Frank, lately?”

_“Why? Am I being presumptuous?”_

Myka could practically _hear_ the grin. “There is nothing romantic about witness protection and wealthy black market thieves who want someone’s head on a plate.”

_“Did I say romantic? I did not say romantic.”_

“Claudia,” the professor warned severely.

_“Sounds like someone has romance on the brain. Have you told H.G. yet?”_

“Told her what?”

 _“Mykes! Do I have to make a freaking PowerPoint?”_ The sound of typing echoed in the background and there was a chime of a new document being opened. _“Because I will. You know I will.”_

“I’m playing dumb. Spell it out for me.”

_“You love her.”_

The surprising thing was Myka’s silence. There didn’t seem to be evidence at hand to disprove, yet she was at a loss to maintain the bold statement. Instead, she kept her eyes on the backyard and the walnut trees, deciphering their susceptibility to high winds. The nut it bore came in numerous quantities; an unseemly amount to offer whatever life form that needed the sustenance. It puzzled Myka that one tree could produce many fruit, but only one seed was needed to plant another _Juglans niga_ of its kind. A dozen or so fruit lay inconsequential in the grass. Myka felt sorry for them.

But if evolution ran a different course, if one black walnut tree bred one solitary nut, then that nut would be consequential. That one nut would have to be handled with care and knowledge of its every seam, swell, and dip. Such a rare and precious gift was not given lightly.

The lack of a quick rebuttal boosted confidence in Claudia’s matchmaking skills. The music of a creaking chair swinging forward and back was like that of a giddy college temp fulfilling her diabolic plan.

“Claudia, I have to go.”

_“NOW you have to go?”_

“Yeah, I want to be around when H.G. gets done with Christina. I don’t know how she will react to her mother’s explanation, but I’d like to be here to support her. It can’t be easy – for either of them.”

_“If you’re trying to convince me you feel nothing for H.G., you’re doing a really bad job of it.”_

“Not now, Claudia. This is just not the right time.”

 _“When is it ever?”_ A heavy sigh ran through the line followed by the creaking of a chair. _“Alright, I’ll give you a pass – this time. But sooner or later you and H.G. need to lay all the cards on the table. No one is just friends with a stunningly beautiful physics teacher and part-time writer. They’re just not. I know you, Dr. Bering, and you don’t hang out with kids unless their parent is something grand, if you know what I mean. Now, I’m going to sign off and leave you to your Twizzlers and thoughts of romance.”_

The Twizzler halted midway to Myka’s mouth. Claudia certainly knew her better than she did.

_“Take care Myka.”_

“I will,” Myka replied to the sincere farewell. She smiled. “Thanks Claudia.”

_“Kirk out!”_

Myka chuckled into the dead line and put her phone away.

The call was definitely a rallying one. Claudia had always been a good friend, that support system only found in family. In all honesty, they were each other’s only support system. The 22-year-old didn’t have family; she grew up as an orphan after the disappearance of her brother. Claudia didn’t know it but Myka once spied her doing research on the young man and came to the conclusion that this lost girl had yet to give up hope. Half out of sympathy, half out of the need for company, Myka invited Claudia over for Thanksgiving. It was a tradition they both took to heart, Myka, thrilled that she wouldn’t have to spend the weekend in Colorado with her parents and Claudia touched that someone finally took her in without questioning her sanity (literally). Neither one for deep, emotional conversation, they learned to trust one another without asking too many questions. It was an unspoken promise that they would love and carry each other through difficult times no matter what. They had their backs through thick and thin and till the end.

Yet the question, nay the statement, that Claudia suggested took Myka’s voice prisoner.

_How could Claudia deduce that I… more than like H.G.?_

Myka was not alike a woman wooed or wooed by others. There was no longing or loving between the hours of night and day. Tears were dry, smiles were innocent, and daydreaming was an absurd notion reserved for the gentlest of hearts.

Myka Bering was not a gentle soul. She was a goddamned professional who worked 80 plus hours a week and ate undergrads for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Myka was not a gentle soul. She was no romantic. Yes, she appreciated the written word and would gladly cite her favorite Shakespeare sonnet… but when you get to the nitty gritty of love, Myka just didn’t have it in her. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

And love for H.G.?

_I shouldn’t love her. That’s… no. I shouldn’t._

Any further delusions of love or the lack of it were interrupted by the sound of the patio door opening. Leena, owner of her own bed and breakfast, stepped through like a gentle breeze.

She was the epitome of tranquility. Not a single wrinkle or concern marred that beautifully smooth face. Framing her stillness were ringlets of hair fashioned to a bob. She possessed strong round cheeks, full pink lips, and a fiercely persistent gaze that could quite possibly see through your very soul.

Like H.G., Leena had a motherly aura as evidenced by her ability to keep Christina occupied and delightfully content. Cookies may have had something to do with it. She must have been quite the tolerant landlord if she boarded up the likes of Agents Nielsen and Lattimer.

“Looks like you could use some food. You’re pale as a sheet,” Leena observed. Myka leaned back a bit at the forwardness, and subsequently leaned headlong towards the smell of freshly baked cookies. Her host noticed this and smiled. “Must have been a long drive from the airport.”

The bait was placed on the glass table with a clink. It took Myka all of five seconds to weigh the pros and cons of taking food from a stranger before her hand snatched up a warm, mouthwatering cookie. The lure was gobbled up, crumbs and all.

Without asking (because it was her property after all) Leena sat a fair distance from her guest. “Stress eater, huh?”

“Isn’t that a rude question to be asking someone you just met?”

“I offended you.” The barely-there smile indicated the opposite.

Myka paused, chewing her cookie slowly. “Maybe,” she responded weakly.

“The cookies must be good,” Leena notices as the brunette snags another.

“They make up for the stress eating question.”

“So you and the Wells’, how long have you known them?”

“Four months.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed. You seem like family.”

Myka wasn’t in the mood for sharing. Instead she diverted inquiry to the hostess. “How long have you owned this bed and breakfast?”

“A few years. It has been in my family for generations, since the early 1900s.”

Myka caught the scarab amulet hanging from the woman’s neck and the history buff in her made a note to ask about it later.

“And has it always boarded Warehouse agents?”

“Yes, since the Warehouse moved to America in 1914. I became owner of the house after my father got sick.”

“I’m sorry.”

Leena shook her head. “When I took over the duties as housekeeper, cook, and assistant to the Warehouse, the people whom I served became family. Artie has always been kind to me. I am treated as any other agent; I know the cases, the effects of various artifacts. I am even granted Warehouse access to conduct tasks for Artie. So you see, my duties are not simply limited to this fine bed and breakfast,” a dazzling smile graced her lips, “although my ability to get dinner on the table at a reasonable hour is a highly respected feat around here. My family has served the Warehouse for decades and will continue to do so until it finds a new home elsewhere.”

“It sounds like you wouldn’t have it any other way,” Myka noted, spirits growing brighter in the shadow of the bed and breakfast. “Although I can’t imagine it is easy living with the likes of Agents Nielsen and Lattimer.”

“Contrary to what you may think upon first meeting them, Artie and Pete are harmless. They do not make great first impressions, but once you get to know them you will understand their humor and witness their sensitive sides.”

“You’re driving a hard bargain,” Myka asserted, smirking. She settled back in her wicker chair and got comfortable. “You mentioned Mr. Niesen was working around the time you became proprietor.”

“Artie originally worked as a cryptographer for the NSA. Not much is known about his life before the Warehouse, and he doesn’t like to talk about it. But like all agents his past is left where it is. The Warehouse is a clean slate for many of us. A new beginning. Artie has been custodian for a while. It was hard, being the only field agent in service to the Warehouse. But when Pete came along… well, he just made things more interesting.”

“I may have just met him, but he sure doesn’t give the impression of the typical government field agent.”

“Yeah,” Leena mused, chuckling with Myka, “you’re correct, in a way. Pete served as a Marine in Afghanistan and later became a Secret Service agent.He has the training, just not the discipline you’d find in your average government intelligence agent. From what Artie’s told me he’s a great partner to have in the field. He has your back no matter what and can get you out of a tight jam. Oh, and he’s great fun to watch movies with,” Leena gushed unapologetically, “unless you’re not a fan of the classics.”

“Did someone say _movies?!_ ”

The pair of heads turned towards high pitch screech and the exuberant girl it belonged to.

“I didn’t see a television,” Christina remarked in a hushed tone, suddenly ill at ease from the attention. Though a respectably excitable child, she fidgeted under the spot light. “I don’t watch a lot, but my mum and I like the old ones.”

“Pete has a big flat screen TV in his room,” Leena explained with a smile. “He always invites Artie and I over for movie nights with the only admission being any sweet or salty snacks for sharing.”

“Mummy doesn’t allow me to indulge after eight o’clock,” Christina stated with downcast eyes and a watering mouth.

“Christina…” Myka put her hands around the tiny waist of the child approaching and hugged her between her knees. She rubbed with her thumbs, soothing any anxiety Christina may have endured from the unveiled truth. “Sweetie, did your mom explain everything to you? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she replied, “I’m fine.”

“You seem quite sure,” Myka frowned, discerning for any uncertainty. “Did she tell you… everything?” A creeping sensation ran through her spine. If there was any possibility that H.G. revealed anything less than the truth, than they had a problem. Correction, Christina’s _mother_ had a problem.

Christina nodded. “My name is Christina Wells now. I kind of like it. I was never keen on Lake.” Leena stifled her laugh with her hand, though Myka couldn’t help but let a chuckle escape. “And my father wasn’t a very nice man. He went to prison.”

Myka tensed. “Do you feel bad at all? You can talk about it, you know. And not just with me. There are other people who can help you adjust if it seems like a lot to take in.”

“No, that’s okay. I never thought about my father much anyway. I like the way things are now.” Christina smiled and playfully swung Myka’s hand with her own as if to reinforce the statement.

“So you’re really okay.” Myka exhaled softly, shoulders relaxing. “Everything’s fine?”

“Yes, Myka, everything is quite alright,” Christina insisted with a condescending smirk and a haughty eye roll inherited straight out of the Wells’ gene pool. “My mother may need a hug, though. She seemed a bit torn up.”

“Where is she?”

“Still in her room.” Christina’s eyes fell on the plate of treats. She licked her lips subtly. “May I have one?”

“It’s not after eight,” Myka feinted contemplation before nodding, “so I think it would be okay.” The wide, toothy smile that resulted went straight to Myka’s heart. She looked over at Leena and if it had not been for their recent conversation (or mild interrogation) she would not be asking. “Can you look after her for a while?”

“It’s not every day this place gets the pleasure of children’s laughter. I’d love to. Go on. We’ll be right here eating cookies and taking in the view. Right, Christina?”

Little legs swinging to and fro from her perch on the chair, Christina swallowed a morsel and responded with a stirring, “Right!”

* * *

When Myka thought of H.G., the word that did not come to mind was ‘despondent.’ As a writer her home was made on the keys of a typewriter. She had her moments of solitude when she demanded a room of her own and a darkness to fill her thoughts in. Those times Myka simply left her alone. While it was possible to make a plea for privacy, the same could not be said for inspiration. Leave the inventive mind for what it’s good at and something extraordinary will result.

But to say H.G. was a miserable human being would just be, as a cheeky English lady would say, “codswallop.” There was an unending fortitude that held H.G.’s chin high and had her laughing in the face of doom or smirking to a condemning review. A flick of her wrist was all it took to cast away the negative, making room for her own prerogative. Woebegone may be a part of her extensive vocabulary, but it was not in her nature.

So when Myka found a raven-haired head against the windowpane and body hunched over like the heavens themselves were bearing down, she was, to put it simply, surprised.

The door pushed closed, causing the head to rise. H.G.’s eyes were red-rimmed, though showing no sign of the source. A breath rattled as she took it in. “Christina?”

“She’s out on the patio with Leena. Don’t worry, I talked with her and she seems reasonably well-balanced. Though if you want more convincing I could ask Claudia to do a background and credit check.”

There was nothing in H.G.’s expression that read amusement. Her head simply fell soundlessly back against the window, eyes closing.

The joke fell flat and Myka cringed at its hurtling demise. She took a few tentative steps from the door. “Your bossy daughter asked me to check in on you,” Myka tried again. “I don’t think she likes to show it, but she’s worried about you.”

_As am I._

“Are you sure you don’t want some air? You’ve been holed up in this room since we got here.”

_Don’t be condescending, Bering. You’re not her mother._

The bed sagged under Myka’s weight. Her hands gripped the edge of its quilt comforter. She was just two feet from the windowsill but still miles from H.G.

“I used to look out my window as a kid,” Myka said, her eyes piercing through the panes as well. “My favorite pastime… I’d imagine every Seven Wonder of the Ancient World in my backyard and all from that one window, everything from the Lighthouse to the Hanging Gardens. My parents don’t travel. They used to, but with a bookshop and two daughters it was a lot to juggle – in that order. Now that –“ She paused midsentence and cocked her head at her previous mention of Seven Wonders. Myka let out a chortle, explaining, “I had a _big_ backyard.”

A crack of a smile lasted mere seconds until lips pursed it shut. The change did not go unnoticed by Myka who laughed at the woman’s failing efforts.

“Oh, Myka,” groaned H.G. “why must you do that? I was profoundly set on crying against this window and now you come and instead of shedding tears I’m seeing the Great Pyramid of Giza!”

Myka grinned slyly. “What’s done is done.”

“You are proving to be quite the master manipulator.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Take it as you will, but I shall have my day of moping. You owe me that much.”

“Put it on my tab.”

“I should think it is a much useless list.” H.G. puzzled over the mere idea. “How is it that you owe me anything?”

Myka, puzzled over the need for the question, worked out her own version of an answer. Her shoulders rose and then dipped. “I guess… I’m grateful to have your trust. True friends who are present in the moment, the ones who remember things short of a cheat sheet aren’t easy to come by in these days of social networking. I suppose I owe you because my life would be pretty dull without you.”

Realizing what she just said, the sincerity and precision, and how her pulse sped caused Myka’s mouth to freeze awkwardly, eyes staring blankly ahead. Talk about her lack of filter.

H.G. said, “You talk of our friendship as if I never put it in jeopardy.”

“I hardly think holding my lemon meringue hostage is the same as endangerment.”

“This is no time to be droll,” H.G. rebuked with a hurt frown. She swiveled so her feet met carpet. “I value this friendship as much as you do, yet you pass over my betrayal like it is a mere trifle. Why are you not as torn up as I?”

“Because,” Myka’s voice didn’t shake, “people do what they have to do in order to survive. No matter what you think, no matter what insignificant voice in your head tells you, Christina doesn’t hate you. Just like I could never hate you. Some lie to deceive. Others lie to protect. You were right to keep your past from me. If it protected you and Christina I’m glad I was kept in the dark. Holding such an immense secret from those close to you… it was a very brave thing to do.”

Her reasoning was pushed away by a scowl.

“I don’t understand. How is it you are so forgiving of me? How can you see me as anything less than insignificant when you have been dealt a lie ever since we met?” H.G. shot up and started pacing. She ran a hand through her hair, fingers slipping through too quick for a reprieve, too soon before an examination of prudence was met. Before her filter caught up she snarled, “I am Helena Wells, not Emily Lake! I am a deceiver of the worst kind! I lied to my best friend and let her believe I am someone I am not.” Tears previously held back when pride demanded spilled over and down porcelain cheeks. Speech became a struggle; her unending strength reached its limit. “H – how could you forgive that? How do you look at me same as you did after the day we met?”

Myka had never been good at cheering people up and worse at physical contact. She did not come there expecting a woman slouched against a window and on the verge of tears. She was not expecting a landslide of feelings and emotions. Nothing could have prepared her for what she was about to do. It was a deed, though quite uncommon in their relationship, imagined more exhaustively than they would admit themselves. H.G. was a mess and everything in Myka was telling her to go to the woman.

It was easier to hug the woman when she wasn’t a moving target. Without a word, Myka clutched H.G. into circling arms. H.G. froze at the initial contact and then started to struggle. She twisted and pushed but Myka wouldn’t let her shrug away. Chin on a dainty shoulder, the Myka held on with equal rigidity.

It was an odd feeling. Neither knew what to expect from meeting their bodies in a snug fit and, therefore, were at a loss for what to say or how to describe the sensation licking at their skin like flames. This nuance in their relationship had taken them both by surprise and left them reeling in each other’s very arms. One thing was for sure, though… nothing about what they were doing felt wrong.

“I don’t care what you call yourself. You are far from insignificant. I don’t care about names or the past. I just want to be able to call you my friend.”

The struggle ceased within a warm embrace. H.G. let out a heavy, pained exhalation and once it was out the security of Myka pressing into and around her did the rest. Forgiveness was accepted wordlessly. It was as inevitable as Claudia said.

Relinquishing the hold she never got a chance to fully return, H.G. wrested her wet cheek from quite forgiving brunette hair.

“Christina seemed well downstairs,” Myka brought up. She diverted her gaze and endeavored to find home for her hands. Pockets were a winner. “I assume she took it well?”

H.G. nodded as her fingers pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “As she often does: with an inscrutable mien and the seasoned comeback of a politician.” The laugh was joyous to H.G.’s ears. “Why does it feel as if I dodged a bullet?” she muttered, only half-kidding.

“Children are resilient.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“I wish I was. Then I could say I had forgiven my father for the years of emotional abandonment.”

H.G. tipped her head, eyes narrowing with a curiosity that wrote novels. “You will have to tell me that story one day.”

“We have time,” Myka proclaimed.

Their shared smiles were only the beginning.

_We have all the time in the world._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything mentioned here on out about the Rosetta Stone (with the obvious exception of its supernatural effects and the British Museum possessing a fake) are historically accurate.


	6. Chapter 6

Seven miles from Univille, South Dakota in a lackluster desert and surrounded by a protective bluff wall stood the secret storage facility. The twelfth in a line of warehouses never seen by civilian eyes was home to thousands of supernatural relics from every corner of the world and time itself. It wasn’t a home as much as a prison, a securely locked building that even the President of the United States did not have access to much less knew it existed.

One could imagine the sensitive nature of bringing two civilians beyond its sealed doors, through the florescent lit umbilical and around the steampunk office wares to arrive at the balcony to witness the wonder that few have seen.

“America’s Attic” as Agent Arthur Nielson called it. His hand, stretching forth and presenting the scenery with a ta-da! wave, seemed insignificant at the forefront. What lay beyond was a never-ending expanse of wonder and impossibility.

H.G. thought Artie had given enough tours to know that a simple ta-da! wouldn’t do, hence the affectionate and subjective title of “America’s Attic.”

It was strange that the quip, “I see London. I see France…” ran through her mind at a time like that. But when one was presented with an idea that sent you straight to the loony bin, asinine jokes had a tendency to ease one’s impending future of insanity pleas and strait jackets. All H.G. could think as she gaped into the beyond was _I see a pyramid. I see a zeppelin. I see myself presently losing my bloody mind!_ Because what else could make a person crazy? The enormous purple glowing tent probably had something to say about that.

But was it real or just a hoax or trick of the mind? An optical illusion meant to deceive the sharpest minds? A false visual impression and a bloody good one at that? Comprehending an answer could drive a person barking mad, which thanks to Artie was dodged with a demonstration.

“Is that Leena’s place?” Myka asked, pointing to the telltale blue roof of a B&B.

“Mm, sort of.” Artie waved them into his office, leaving a gaping Myka without further explanation. “Follow me. _Please_.”

“Agent Nielsen,” H.G. said in her melodic British diction as she gave a study of the office, “from the designs of this workplace a cultured eye could perceive its archaic design. Yet there are no technological hindrances in sight.”

“Ah, yes. You would be referring to the combination of Victorian design and 21st century machinery. As I like to describe it: looks old but runs new. There’s also another way of putting it…” Artie’s scramble about the office went on recess for him to scratch his head, “… something called steampunk.” He shook his head and waved it off as redundant. “Kids these days… always trying to date the likes of people like me.”

“People like you?” H.G. inquired.

His rummaging in file cabinets halted. Artie did a double take at H.G.’s impish grin. “Just… people,” he sputtered.

Myka’s chuckle was drowned out by some banging of metal and a scraping of what perhaps was a file cabinet opening before Artie procured a hand-held camera-like object.

“Is that a weapon?” H.G. asserted herself between Myka and the man holding the contraption like a gun. It was pointed to the floor, but knowing close to nothing about the person holding it and considering they were in a highly top-secret facility where no one could hear you scream H.G. was not about to let her guard down.

“Is this a weapon,” Artie repeated nonchalantly, chuckling. “No, this is not a weapon.” He waved the non-weapon before them as proof. “This is a durational spectrometer – a security camera so to speak. When operated it displays holographic video of recent movement. Just point, and shoot. Like gun.” Shaggy brows skyrocketed then as he waved his hand out in precaution. “But _not_ a gun!”

Myka stared the man down before taking the proffered camera. Grasping the handle with one hand she fiddled a dial with the other. H.G. silently gazed over her shoulder at the device, making a clicking sound with her tongue (a quirk Myka recognized whenever the scientist could look but not touch the exceedingly beguiling).

“It’s…” thick, chubby fingers went out and then snapped back at the glare from brown eyes, “… that one right there,” he instructed verbally (borderline anxiously), tapping his digits against a scraggly chin.

The spectrometer was calibrated with a flip of a switch and from out the end sputtered a beam of red light. The red static flickered and developed into a full-size image, a _moving_ representation of Artie walking from the umbilicus into the office with Myka and H.G. following. A frown rose to the brunette’s face as it occurred to her that this event occurred just minutes earlier.

Though lacking audio, Myka read lips and was drawn to those belonging to one woman in particular. She discerned the ever knowledgeable physicist mouthing the words, _Why are there bombs established at the entrance?_

“It replays the past activity of wherever focused.”

“Very good,” Artie nodded to Myka.

“How far back does it go?”

“Five hours.”

The three holographic figures moved out of sight, so Myka moved the camera and sure enough it followed the movements of Artie, H.G. and herself from the office out towards the balcony and the inevitable reveal of “America’s Attic.”

Myka looked up curiously. “Why five?”

“Why?” Artie snorted. He threw up his hands. “We are standing in a facility filled with objects that do impossible things. ‘Why’ is a superfluous question. When you’ve been here as long as I have it’s best not to ask it too often.”

“I make a living out of asking that question.” H.G. crossed her arms defensively. “When it comes to relativity, electromagnetism, and quantum mechanics, _superfluous questions_ are rather a theoretical possibility that in all likelihood could be proven with a whiteboard and a solid few years of funded research,” she expounded, waving her hand.

“Which explains why you were not granted full-access to the Warehouse, nor a recruitment candidate as a Warehouse field agent.”

“Excuse me?” She shifted to a semi-aggressive stance with hands on hips and a chin protruding forward. “I could not afford Oxford or Cambridge but I bloody well had a decent education. Do _you_ have doctorate in physics? Have you studied string cosmology? Black hole physics? Gravitational waves?”

“Who, what, where now?”

Ambling into the office was Pete, upbeat and grinning like he interrupted some juicy gossip. Like all water cooler chatter broken up by the nosy, loud mouth co-worker the three scattered. Artie slide into his chair after a suitable eye roll and H.G. snagged hold of the spectrometer fully prepared to break the befuddling thing down piece by piece (unless Artie had something to say about that which he would).

Abandoned by her allies, Myka was left with the noble burden to fill Pete in. She explained that H.G. was proficient in astrophysics and general relativity. It was the usual gossip a macho toddler like Pete Lattimer foamed at the mouth for. Myka was humble for her friend’s sake, but maintained a strong sense of self-worth. It was important to get the point across that the new temporary field agents were neither incompetent for the job they were brought there to do, nor embellishing know it all’s. The sharp nod from Myka emphasized that they were the real deal, no buts about it.

“Psh,” he puffed out his chest, scratching it with his fingertips and then giving it a good manly pat,” like either one of you went to Cambridge.”

“Oh?” Myka concealed her snobbery with a cocked head and a scrunch of her nose. “And where did you go to school?”

Not anticipating the sharp comeback, Pete froze, eyes panning up for a moment, mind racing, before meeting Myka’s. “Uh, I went to Cleveland State. _Obviously_ ,” he dragged out a bit too long to be authentic pride.

Myka went on to relay what H.G. had told her one fine afternoon in the park: that the woman attended University of Manchester, earning her PhD – with honors.

“So what does she do now? Teach pimply, hormonal teenagers a subject that is clearly on the top of their to-do list?”

Eyes narrowed threateningly. “She didn’t have a lot of options. And unavailable opportunities do not equal a lack of ambition.”

Utterly oblivious to the heated discussion over her own profession, H.G. continued to fiddle with the spectrometer, nose an inch from the muzzle and muttering curses in bafflement.

“What were your choices?” Myka prompted the young agent. “Movie drive-in operator and snack specialist? I can see why a career in a storeroom would appeal.”

Pete felt the sting, but was more than experienced in defending his young adult job phase. “Hey, the drive-in is a legitimate business and honorable means to pay one’s college tuition!” Not to mention the free popcorn and Raisinets.

“So is a high school educator! Her current place of work may not challenge her in the way she’d like, but H.G. is a fine physicist with a brilliant mind.”

The expressive justification paired with Pete’s whistle of ‘back off sister’ woke the bear from his hibernation.

“Alright! Enough squabbling!” Artie interjected, throwing armfuls of files at them as he passed by. “Time to get to work!”

Myka had to find the strength not to stamp her foot as Pete made a mocking face at her. It was best to be the adult in situations like that. As Leena promised, Pete was making an extraordinary impression. He was humorous, in an annoying way, and indeed had a sensitive side – one that placed him well below Christina’s level of maturity.

With the younger folk convening at their rightful place before the mounds of books, maps, and photographs, Artie commenced with his lecture.

“I want to make – “ Artie’s speech got cut off by a series of alarming beeps. Glaring, he snatched the device away from a startled H.G. Her eyes angled away and the corner of her mouth turned up indignantly like a wunderkind who got a slap on the hand for exercising curiosity. “I want to make something _absolutely_ clear,” he resumed, eyeing Myka and H.G. equally. “You two are _not_ under _whatever_ circumstances qualified to handle this case or any other having to do with my warehouse. Ah, ah!” he exclaimed, a finger out to stop H.G. mid-word, “I don’t care what schooling you had. You could have studied under the tutelage of Stephen Hawking and I still would consider you unqualified. I spent half my life hunting down artifacts and have not escaped without casualties to my team. I have seen the most prepared of field agents unable to outsmart their effects, so the last thing I need is an uptight professor, an egomaniac, and a child on my services.”

H.G. who seemed to be fast on her way to making enemies with Artie brushed the jab off. Myka just scrunched her face at the ‘uptight’ remark and discerned a classic case of projection from her new boss.

“Wait, I thought the kid wasn’t coming with?”

Myka chortled. She took pleasure in enlightening Pete. “I think he was talking about you, Lattimer.”

The hurt face whipped to Artie. “Heeey!”

“Pete, I already gave your lecture yesterday. Would you like a repeat performance?”

“Thank you, no.”

“The most crucial piece of information you must take away from this,” Artie stared at the women from over his spectacles, “is that you are _temporary_ agents of the Warehouse, which means you practice the same security measures as fully instated agents. The responsibility of secrecy isn’t taken lightly. Not adhering to the rules will lead to a most severe detriment not only to the Warehouse and yourselves but to the entire planet. There is a reason civilians have never been asked to consult in Warehouse business. This is an unpredictable line of work and can be life threatening. Agents with more experience and brains than both of you and Nikola Tesla combined have been killed, gone missing, or lost their minds.”

“Or lived long enough to see themselves become the villain,” Pete added in his best Aaron Eckhart impression.

“Don’t scare them.”

“I thought that was the point?”

“Not at the expense of your impersonations.”

Myka was nodding, clearly on Artie’s side.

“Trust me, you both have more to fear than this child’s anecdotes. If it were up to me you wouldn’t have left Chicago.”

H.G.’s feigned sincerity displayed with a tip of the head. “Do so appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“Oh, you don’t have to like it. But you made the decision to be here and assist in a _miniscule_ way. I cannot help that, so are we all ready to proceed?”

Artie received two “yeahs” and one acrimonious huff.

“Two out of three,” he mumbled, wishing for the day the case was solved, “great.”

They discussed the preliminaries of the mission. Because the circumstances of the stone’s disappearance and clues to where it went from there had to be uncovered, Artie would head to Moscow to seek out a contact. The agents of Warehouse 11 (then established in Russia) were sent to acquire the Rosetta Stone following its discovery. A very convincing copy was made and swapped with the original.

“Who did they find to construct this ‘very convincing copy’?” H.G. asked.

A file opened to show the black and white portrait of a man in typical 18th century fashioned ruffled shirt and coat.

“François Joseph Bosio.”

Myka took the portrait, studying it with a keen eye. “Bosio? But he’s French.”

“Huh, _huh_!” Pete quipped in his disastrously guttural French accent complete with a curled upper lip.

“And he had ties to Napoleon which made him excellent material for blackmail.” Myka’s and H.G.’s expressions were comical and he expanded, “Well, how would you go about commissioning a patriotic Frenchman?” Blank stares were returned. He shrugged like it was simple mathematics. “You empty his bank account. That and you tell him it’s for the homeland.”

“So Bosio, who made a living sculpting portraits of the imperial family, was convinced to act as an accomplice in stealing the most prized treasure in French history right from under Bonaparte’s nose?”

Artie stared and then nodded. “Yeah.”

Lips formed into a tight line, Myka gave a firm nod in return.

While Artie was in Russia Pete would be taking H.G. and Myka with him to London to hunt down a lead: Lewis Webb. Ever since his release from prison, there had been no sign of his whereabouts. One could assume he was hiding from the wealthy benefactor he cheated and moving from place to place, therefore, making his location difficult to pin down. Recently, Artie informed, he had left a trail that ended in London. If Lewis knew where the stone was hidden then they could find it and return it to the safety of the Warehouse before anyone else got their hands on it.

As if predestined to arrive at the most opportune moment, Mrs. Frederic came to the team just as their leader was wrapping up the briefing. _Came_ was putting it lightly for there was no other way of putting it without sounding loony.

“She does that,” Pete whispered to his new partners.

“And does she always look the same?” H.G. asked back, frowning. “She has hardly aged a day since I met her eight years ago.”

“My money’s on Botox.”

If Mrs. Frederic overheard she did not show it.

“I assume Arthur briefed you on the nature of secrecy and the risks involved?”

“Yes,” replied Myka.

“Exhaustively,” drawled H.G.

Pete raised his hand like the good school boy he should have been when it counted 15 years ago. “I helped.”

“Thank you, Agent Lattimer.” Mrs. Frederic bowed her head. “You are on your way to filling your superior’s shoes.”

“Ah-um, well I sure hope not because I don’t think I could fit into those…” Pete chose his words carefully, “… _shoes_.” He clasped his hands and lowered his head. Attention was gratefully stemmed.

“Though I’m sure you have been extensively drilled I wish to convey my own cautions. You are both without field training and, therefore, will find yourselves in very high risk situations that you may not be able to get out of. Pete is an adequate field agent…”

“Aw, thanks Mrs. F.”

“… but he cannot protect the both of you. How favorable are either of you to carrying a firearm?”

Myka and H.G. exchanged curious glances. Though their minds had not been changed, the mention of weapons was enough to take Artie’s story of dead, missing, and insane former agents to heart.

H.G. was the first to speak up.

“I do not like guns,” she stated. “I find them uncivilized. However, I can make do with _other_ skills.” The emphasis on ‘other’ paired with her signature smirk of confidence was enough to satisfy Mrs. Frederic.

“Packing is no problem for me,” Myka said. “I have an adequate shot. And I brought my licensed SIG-Sauer.”

“Whoa, hey now.” Pete raised his hands. “Since when are we allowing the temporary civilian agents to pack heat? It’s dangerous for them, not to mention for the person that’s leading the team.” He subtly rubbed his back at the idea of friendly fire.

“Correction,” Artie interjected, “ _I_ will be leading the team.”

“Well, _I_ am senior field agent in London. The last thing I need is a bullet in the back or god forbid the more important areas.” Pete cringed and absently clenched his thighs together at the thought.

Myka rolled her eyes. “I frequent the firing range three times a week. Your back and all other areas are safe from me. I can assure you.”

Admittedly, Myka was a beautiful woman and he had thought about it once or twice, but she had a tendency to bring out the urge for Pete to give that hair a good tug when she was being overtly annoying. And when the line was drawn, the line was drawn. Even the proud grin from H.G. (subtly hidden from Myka) seemed to be a warning. Pete would have to follow up on that at a later date.

“Our last order of business has been completed,” Mrs. Fredric declared, clasping strong hands in front of her body. “Miss Bering and Miss Wells, you have been briefed of your responsibilities and the consequences if not shouldered. I wish you luck on the case and hope for your safe return.”

* * *

The next morning had the agents packing and prepping for the journey ahead. With half the team already practiced in the art of pre-mission preparedness, the other half was developing a slight case of the jitters, but not born of danger or the silly fear that they would never return, no. Adventure was the foundation for bundled nerves and the need to check and recheck one’s carry on for all the essentials (passport, wallet, phone, Kleenex, Ibuprofen, notepad and pen, a well-thumbed copy of _Aeneid_ [in its original Latin, of course] and a travel chess set). No matter the circumstances for venturing out in the first place, their quest brought on a heady surge of adrenaline. It was the rush Myka had fantasized about, and one that H.G. was aching to experience again.

“Myka?”

The tug at the end of her shirt drew the brunette from the rest of the crowd. “Christina, come to say goodbye?”

Myka’s back stiffened, suddenly aware that she hated goodbyes and displays of them even more. The dilemma about farewells was that they never ceased to make a lasting impression. It solidified how two people felt towards one another and how they displayed it, if at all. It wasn’t all about words as it was body language. It was a double-edged sword: show too much emotion and come across as a depreciated soul sucker or give off a vibe of misanthropic asshole-ry by not showing enough. There was so much to consider for such a thing as small as farewell. What was the proper decorum for saying goodbye to an eight-year-old child that was nothing more than a friend? Such a quandary could only trouble a person like Myka Bering.

Was hugging a bit much?

_I would have to get on my knees. Would that look weird?_

What about a shake of the hand?

_Too corporate._

Kiss on the cheek?

_I wouldn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable. Hell, I wouldn’t want to make ME uncomfortable._

Light punch on the shoulder and a “See ya ‘round, kid?”

_How could Lattimer be rubbing off on me already?_

All the while Myka’s mind was racing for an answer H.G. and Pete were half done with their arguing over who would get a window seat while Artie was giving the usual instructions to an already well informed Leena. Christina still had a handful of Myka’s shirt and was tugging her back into the present.

“May we talk? Alone?”

It didn’t sound good. Not at all. The girl had a pained look on her face that made Myka feel like she owed her something.

Christina had Myka’s hand and was guiding her into the sun room before an uncertain, “A-alright,” could be uttered. Brown, scuffed riding boots were by that time on the heels of child-sized slippers – the youngster towing the professor. There was obviously no way Christina would take “no” for an answer – a trait she had no doubt inherited from her charming mother.

“I didn’t want you to leave until I’ve said something.”

It occurred to Myka there have been very few instances of it just being the two of them. Whether they were sharing a meal, talking about their respective homework assignments, or any other activity their time together had usually been in the presence of H.G. or had taken place in a public setting. It wasn’t unnerving before to be alone with the girl, yet somehow things felt different. Different territory, recent truths brought to light… Myka was leaving with the girl’s mother on a very important trip (as it was explained to the child). Perhaps Christina was reverting back to her jealous streak. She could feel abandoned, or worse, betrayed. Myka experienced a shiver over the unknown. There was a reason why Myka didn’t like children. They were unpredictable.

She looked down at Christina, forcing a smile to encourage her to continue. A tiny mouth twisted, creating wrinkles no child should carry. Every worry seemed to turn inside out, splattering over her face in expressions far out of her age range. Despite her maturity, consternation should not be a fashion worn by an eight-year-old.

“I realize I did not apologize for my inappropriate behavior. I treated you horribly and it is inexcusable.”

“Christina, you don’t –“

“Please let me finish,” Christina cut in, brow raised. She was like an attorney struggling over the implications of her closing argument. “Even after the exhausting chastisement I suffered from Mummy I could not make an improvement. You have tried very hard to be my friend and I threw every nice gesture away like it was rubbish. I know you don’t like children…”

Myka’s gape was telling, though Christina was too caught up in her speech to pay any mind. Her mouth opened, ready to disagree, but nothing came.

“… but if that were true you wouldn’t have done what you did when I had my asthma attack. Mummy says you were there because you care about me.” Raven strands closed like twin curtains over the cherub face. Head bowed, Christina wrung her hands in front of her, mumbling, “I never used to think so, but I believe it now. Your intentions were noble, mine were intolerable.”

The apology was barely audible and nearly didn’t pass between trembling lips. Myka’s hand went out and with index and middle finger took a piece of that noir curtain, pulling it back and over an ear. The spectacle unveiled could cut into the hardest of hearts. Christina Wells, so burdened and beautiful just like her mother.

She bent down so their heads were level, draping her arm over a knee and the other hand persisting in its stroking of a cheek. Suddenly, Myka was no longer stressing over body language or the proper way in which to express regard for a friend (a loved one). There was no right or wrong approach. There was no predetermined sequence of words, no strategized movement to ease either party’s comfort. The most genuine display of emotion was one driven by the heart, not the head. As a leaf riding the wind to nowhere it was a whim. It was not careless; it was the product of inspiration.

Myka’s hand moved of its own accord, fingering the wavy strands back with a passing brush to an ear.

“You are a very admirable young lady, you know that?” Her mouth stretched for a grin. “Your dawdling, as your mom would call it, in warming up to me… how resiliently you hung on during your asthma attack… apologizing to me now when all has already been forgiven… I wish I had your courage.”

“Please do not take my apology lightly.” Christina’s frown deepened as she argued, “And my being mean to you was not courage.”

“Charming stubbornness?” Myka supplied. The tiny giggle that slipped out let her know she had hit her mark. Searching the floor for words, Myka changed track. “When H.G. and I became friends we hung out a lot together. I enjoy her company, and she makes me feel… well, she makes me feel like you when she would rather tuck you in at night over grading papers. She _chooses_ to spend time with you. That’s a good feeling, right?”

Christina nodded.

“Right. And we always have a lot of fun with her. She makes us smile until our cheeks hurt and laugh like we never have before.” Christina touched her face into the back of a finger touching her cheek. “I can understand how you might have felt a little left out. You were just scared of losing your mother. And being scared isn’t anything to be ashamed of, but it’s not necessary. She loves you more than anything and would never dream of abandoning you.”

“I really didn’t have anything against you,” Christina insisted, sniffling. “Well, maybe there was a bit of cruel honesty behind the bottom feeder remark as Mummy likes to tease so often.”

Myka turned away, concealing her smile.

“It is no excuse, though.” The recognition of the girl’s behavior seemed to hit full force and her little body looked absolutely weathered by it. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I _do_ like you.” The sincerity in her puffy, glistening eyes showed just how much.

Cooing softly, Myka dispensed with the tears with a feather light touch.

“As much as you like me it’s not a fraction as much as I like your mom. She’s impulsive, unconventional, and thinks way too highly of herself,” the duet of laughter and giggles was like fine music, “but I wouldn’t have her any other way.”

“She is lucky to have you as a friend.”

“I think at this point we are all lucky to have each other.”

Myka was more surprised by how quickly she accepted the hug than by the head on ambush. Christina had thrown herself forward without warning, but with all the cause in the world. Myka felt every ounce of love press into her and wrap itself about her, locking behind her neck. She gasped, eyes obscured by something warm and watery. She watched through a watermark as her breath rustled dark strands of hair. As if in slow motion her fingers reached to conceal themselves in the softness.

The hug would end, but the feeling and memory would never fade. Christina’s love would stay with her, perhaps indefinitely. Myka was okay with that. After years of stemming emotion like it was poison in her veins she could finally accept love because she knew Christina had hers forever.

If real life were a film then it would have an audience. Through gasps and applause the onlookers would give their critique of the characters and their performance. Some, though, choose not to reveal their praises. They would wait till the end of the act when the curtain closed and the players exeunt. Or they would just wait behind the spotlight, expressing themselves through their eyes. If the players were privy to faces just as painted as their own, they would see them splotched with awe, with tears, with fascination.

H.G. looked on from behind the glass doors. Her presence went unnoticed just as her face did, the tears and tender warmth canvasing her face.


	7. Chapter 7

At 36,000 feet in the air and traveling at 600 miles per hour H.G. was having a most extraordinary moment of stupefaction. In the event of such an oddity, no word in the English language could suffice what one wanted to describe, for only the object of one’s attentions could say for itself. Closer, that was the solution. Better to see with one’s eyes, so that perhaps the visual could transform to more acceptable words of praise than “uhm.”

But when Pete was a gossiping ear away and rules of friendship must be headed the option of _closer_ could not be considered. Instead, a lazy eye had to be cast to the passing flight attendant (attractive, yet substandard to the object of a woman’s real affection) and rules of chess had to be abided.

It wasn’t uncommon for H.G. to be struck into a daze, but the occurrence happened less and less as her imagination grew. Complexities in nature ceased to thrill her like they used to and the limit to human achievement rarely reached the stars. Her job as a high school physics teacher was just as limiting. There was no challenge in teaching adolescents, no opportunity to explore beyond the curriculum. H.G. had so many ideas. Her head was filled to the brim with them – questions, arguments, propositions, and loads of opinions and quantified facts based on her own research. She felt ahead of her time, passing human norm for the unobserved minutes, hours, years. To society, with their mini computers and smart cars, the future was theirs already. To H.G., they had yet to scratch the surface of the future and all the milestones it still had to offer.

Possessed of a muddled mind and a dry mouth, H.G. prayed and dreaded for the moment to pass. When something managed to stupefy the inventive H.G. Wells it restarted her heart like a jolt of electricity. A thrilling experience, no doubt about it, but lack of words could make a mind like hers go spinning into oblivion. H.G. always liked to think she was more proficient in ideas than words, yet the desired verse was dancing on the tip of her tongue.

It suddenly occurred to H.G. the probability of a beautiful woman reading classic literature in its original language sitting next to her on a plane headed for London. What on earth had she done to deserve such a gift? As Fortune smiles on the worthy, H.G. was receiving a wicked, beaming smirk from the Lady herself.

_Rules. Friendship. Bloody boundaries for heaven’s sake!_

But as that movie Christina liked so much said, rules are more like guidelines anyway.

“Your hair,” H.G. mused with an air of fascination as if the Northern Lights alone couldn’t compete with such curiosity, “it’s changed.”

Marking her place in _Aeneid_ , Myka turned in her seat. “Huh? My hair?” Shaking her head uncertainly, attention was stripped from the desecration of Aeneas’ fleet in the Mediterranean to the focus of her seatmate’s eye. “Oh, this…” She smiled shyly, fingering glossy corkscrews of russet and flicking it away with a manner of apathy. “My hair just takes too long to straighten. Is it distracting? It is, isn’t it? I should really change it back tomorrow.”

“No,” H.G. pleaded loud enough for Pete to stir in his sleep. She winced. Tipping her head she lent her approval in a half grin. “These curls suit you.”

A fire rose to Myka’s cheeks and became more visible as a strand of unruly twists was pushed behind an ear. “Um, it’s not really a new look.” Myka’s hand stayed tangled at the ends, and abruptly she cursed herself for making the change.

“Restored to its natural magnificence,” H.G. murmured. Something most strange – and when thought on later, absurd – came over her. Breath fixed between parted lips, she searched Myka’s pulsating emerald eyes. She stared until a moment of discomposure pulled her from the contact, too novel to decipher. Shaking her head with upmost sincerity, H.G. hurried, “Not that it was not magnificent before.”

Myka looked away again, this time biding with the bottom of a lip between her teeth.

From her prized window seat, H.G. reached out towards her rook and made her move. Myka closed her book completely and returned her attention to the small scale chess board resting between them. Her sparring partner had a tendency to make longwinded calculations of her next mode of attack. However, it would appear that her concentration had strayed to more… corporeal interests.

_Rules, Bering. Just because Claudia saw this as some epic romance does not make it okay to interpret everything H.G. says and does as a come on. Rules!_

The black piece made a tapping sound as it arrived on f5, subsequently claiming a white bishop prisoner. Myka gave an irate sigh, head falling back to her seat.

“Concentration is a forte,” H.G. advised with a haughty grin, “best applied in circumstances without diversion.”

Myka threw the so-called offensive book to the side. “Well, I could concentrate better if you wouldn’t take a century to make a move.”

“Heeey!” Pete moaned groggily. He lifted the heavy tome from where it had landed on his crotch. “Watch where you’re throwing… what is this?”

“ _The_ _Aeneid_. It’s a classic.”

“Two thousand pages of _whatever_. Keep it from my private regions.” He thrust the book at Myka and turned over.

Scowling momentarily at Pete’s slight to one of her favorites, Myka let it go with an eye roll.

“What do you think of this Warehouse business?” she asked H.G. “Do you really believe that these artifacts have the power to influence in supernatural ways?”

“Well, you saw for yourself with the spectrometer. There is no possible way to create a three dimensional recording device of that kind. The only conclusion could be that of its paranormal effects. I inspected it for myself, there was no trick. Even the Warehouse itself; how can one be fooled by those numerous aisles and monumental artifacts rising to the ceiling?”

“You seem pretty sold on the idea.”

“It is not a mere idea, Myka, but a reality. A skeptic such as yourself should be completely satisfied with what you can see with your own eyes and touch with your hands.”

“It’s just a lot to take in. It seems like something out of an Indiana Jones movie; a building filled with objects capable of god knows what and hidden in an undisclosed location from the public. If you asked my ten-year-old self I would have believed it in a second. I was a sucker for untold adventures and legends of pyramid builders from outer space.”

H.G. allowed the image of a curly haired little girl in overalls to enter her mind. She crawled through a stronghold of couch cushions by the beam of her flashlight, grinning like she was on the verge of discovering Atlantis. It warmed H.G.’s heart and brought a smile to her own face.

“And now?” she asked.

“I think my years of study,” Myka cast a sidelong glance with a smirk, “have devastated the theory of extraterrestrial gods and their architectural gifts to the Earth. However, I still get excited by even the suggestion of adventure. You don’t know how many times the department chair has yanked me back and forth about signing off on a travel study course to Egypt. It’s not going to happen with our budget, but I can’t help that small spark of hope.”

If there was anything H.G. adored about Myka it was her expression when she talked about her thirst for adventure. There was nothing like unbridled passion in the form of fiery eyes and gesturing hands. No matter how much she would disagree, Myka became that ten-year-old girl. It was an image that harkened back to her cushion fort days and it was the closest H.G. would come to knowing that enterprising young thing.

“Dr. Bering,” she cooed, “and her child-like delights.” A deep scowl brought out the line between the professor’s eyes as H.G. went on teasing. “It _is_ rather adorable.”

“Please stop, H.G.”

The chuckle resonated behind a pale, skinny hand.

“You seem to have no problem accepting the bizarre. What pray tell does the writer have to say about that?”

H.G. went silent for a moment, turning over the past few hours for purposes of scrutiny and fond tribute. When she was satisfied with an answer her eyes drew up to Myka’s and with all the honesty she could muster began, “I used to think my imagination knew no bounds. Take it as vainglory, but my stories come from a place outside the normal range of inspiration. I pride myself on conceiving the impossible – stuff no one could dream of – and putting it to paper. But the Warehouse… amid all that wonderment… it brought me to pause. I feel as if every fantasy penned before I set eyes on that place was a product of blind ambition.”

Myka’s hand inched towards the one nearest. It was stone cold and bloodlessly rigid. “But that sounds so sad.”

“I feel like an insignificant trinket among thousands of significant gems,” H.G. groused lightly. “But it is enchanting to witness such tangible castles in the air. I have never imagined the look and feel and smell of one of my stories, yet it is conceivable to do so.” Struck by further amazement, H.G. leaned forward, grasping her friend’s arm with a gasp. “Imagine, Myka, one of those artifacts being the focus of one of my novels!”

Warmed in the light of a spellbound expression, Myka shared the smile. “And you call _my_ delights childlike.”

“Oh, pish posh. Innocence is a virtue.”

“Yeah, one you frequently exercise when stealing my lemon meringue.”

H.G. rolled her eyes and smirked like the unremorseful criminal she was. “You are not still going on about that.”

Myka submitted a severe look that indicated she was, and proceeded to move her chess piece. With the capture of her last knight, H.G. drew a perplexed look and quickly hid the tell by cradling her chin between thumb and forefinger. Myka shook her head, grinning towards her studious chess partner – correction: _losing_ , studious chess partner.

Myka shifted in her seat and reached towards the gun secured to her hip. Their cover identities being secret service agents, Myka and Pete were allowed to board the plane with their concealed weapons. H.G., still averse to the idea, traveled weaponless. ‘My sharp mind and quick wit are a sufficient enough defense,’ she had assured.

All through the flight, Myka had been checking and rechecking that the safety was engaged. H.G. looked on with a raised brow as the woman fiddled with the thing from its holster.

“Have I missed something here? Are we going into battle?”

“There’s nothing wrong with being prepared. Anyway,” Myka shrugged, “it’s regulation for Warehouse agents to carry a firearm.”

“ _Fully instated_ Warehouse agents.” H.G. scrutinized Myka with a wary eye. “Don’t you think you’re taking this a bit too seriously?”

“That’s right. I forgot. This is coming from the woman who gets a thrill out of the precarious,” Myka said, remembering the time they almost got detained by authorities after H.G. decided it was a-okay to sneak into the restricted section of a museum. Myka chuckled at the memory of H.G.’s flirtatious means of averting arrest. Shaking her scorched cheeks, she gestured to the gun. “It’s for protection, not to start a war.”

“Darling, not all wars began with good intentions.”

“Are you inferring that I’m going to spark World War Three?”

“Or launch a thousand ships,” H.G. mused with a nearly lustful grin.

Myka touched her curls absently.

_You are a rule follower, not a rule breaker._

“But I can say in all honesty that the world is in good hands. It would be frightening to think what would transpire were it in mine.”

“I hardly think you would be capable of mass destruction, H.G. More like…” with a tip of the head, Myka studied the author and imagined what would come from that beautiful brain, “… more like utopian societies and machines that can propel people through time and space.”

With a snort and a wave of her hand H.G. turned back to the chessboard. She focused on tweaking her strategy, but was soon taken hostage by diversion. Visions of an ideal world filled with soaring skyscrapers, accessible transportation, equality, freedom, and social and technological advancements took over. Horseless chariots rocketed through H.G.’s mind; in the background a clock ticked forward to an unforeseeable future. A woman was at the epicenter of those visions, and, like Atlas shrugging the weight of the world, she was shouldering faith in a writer of little to no reputation. And what a steadfast faith it was; stubborn, reverent, and incandescently flawless.

H.G. looked back to Myka who was already nose deep in her book. There were no words to express what was taking hold of her. Instead, she closed parted lips, sat back, and let distraction have its foolish way with her.

_Perhaps one day the rules could be broken._

* * *

Myka and Pete got off to a rocky start. It was safe to say they had butted heads ever since Pete was declined a high five upon their first meeting. From then on Myka had been labeled a “party pooper” and became the butt of frequent jokes regarding her professor title. It didn’t help that Pete annoyed the hell out of his new, temporary partner. It was a job he took on with pride and self-professed swagger. Agent Latimer was an intuitive investigator, making decisions based on instinct and his trusty “vibes.” When asked if he was considered an artifact due to this superpower and when the suggestion of bagging and tagging himself presented Pete got authoritative (adorably authoritative for a man of so little stature, H.G. would describe). Pete was point, as he so often declared. Pete was the supreme master and architect of this mission… “but don’t tell Artie I said that.”

Myka didn’t take too well to this display of power, and the stalemate continued. Though Pete would not admit it in a million years, the professor acclimated quickly to the position. She had an attention for detail (a skill neither Pete nor Artie excelled at), and was a thorough sleuth who didn’t miss a single thing. What was not appreciated was her approach. Myka was by-the-book and motivated by intellect over emotion. All angles were analyzed before diving head first into a situation. There was always a plan A, B, C, and D when Myka was in charge. One could see from miles away just how compatible Bering and Lattimer were.

Just as perceptive as Myka, H.G. saw underneath the sibling rivalry where two quite possibly well-matched minds could work well together. Myka and Pete each had their prescribed methods and there was plenty of room for them to learn from each other (if they managed to unstick their heels from the ground). There was great potential there for two completely opposite fools to become an effective team. It seemed an unfair advantage to disrupt that dynamic, leaving H.G. to take on the mantle of odd man out. The rank made sense, of course. She had always been too much of a free spirit to work well with others. Though it wasn’t spoken of, H.G. became the solo agent of the mission, conducting her own research and following up on leads when it suited her. Using the creative mind she was born with, H.G. always thought outside the box and came up with solutions Myka and Pete hadn’t even considered. She was not afraid to get her hands dirty and acted with more reckless abandon. She would do what her other teammates failed to do; she would do what was absolutely necessary even if it meant sacrificing her principles. H.G. had a personal connection to the case and therefore knew of its traps and shadowed dangers. She knew what her husband was capable of, which made her an asset in hunting down Lewis Webb.

Their first strategy in finding prime suspect number one was checking nearby hotels. They could essentially get anything with the flash of their secret service badges, though not evading the occasional raise of the brow. Just why three U.S. secret service agents had business in the U.K. was left up to the imagination.

With H.G.’s help they searched guest records under various aliases Lewis had used over the years. Only the most high-brow lodgings were considered because Lewis was too proud of his currency to skimp on accommodations. It was all for naught. Just hours after landing in London and the team had gotten nowhere. If Webb was in London he was the Invisible Man for he didn’t leave a single footprint to the keen eyes of the three Warehouse agents.

By the seventh hotel Pete and H.G. were all for dropping their current plan of attack, but Myka was insistent on one last attempt. While she was convincing the manager of her credentials, Pete and H.G. bided their time in the lobby.

Leaning back and propping his elbows on table, Pete’s neck craned towards the ceiling. Though not possessing a thoughtful eye for architecture, Pete could acknowledge great art when the time called for it. His eyes glazed over at an extravagant chandelier probably made of gold and the white marble engravings as majestic as the Taj Mahal. After 30 seconds of appreciated staring, he looked around for further entertainment.

“So what can we expect from your husband when we have him cornered?”

H.G. threw Pete an insufferable look and corrected, “ _Ex_ -husband. And I should think he would not take too well to seeing me again, let alone two American government agents. He probably would think I snitched on him again,” her head tipped and a cheery smile brightened her face, “which is a wonderfully precise accusation.”

“When was the last time you two talked?”

“The day Christina and I were relocated to the United States. Eight years ago.”

Pete whistled lowly. “Man, we should start a club. Estranged divorcés unite.”

“You are a casualty of dissolution?”

“Amanda,” Pete answered, nodding sadly. “We were young. She knew exactly what she wanted and I… didn’t. There were other reasons for the split, many of which were my fault. Who took the blame in yours?”

“Oh,” H.G. smiled without regret, “Lewis carried that weight all on his own. I happily left him to it.”

“Hence his imprisonment.”

“Precisely, yes. He deserved what he got. For the sake of myself and my daughter I could never regret walking out of that sham marriage.”

“Where’s the champagne?” With a friendly smile plastered on his face Pete looked about for the imperceptible bottle. “I feel like we should toast to that. Rain check?”

H.G.’s chin dipped, allowing for an indulgent grin. “Perhaps.”

“Alright,” Pete droned, triumphantly. He nodded to himself, brainstorming all the stops he would have to pull out for this woman; five star hotel, of course, and that suit and tie would have to be dusted off, three hundred crunches in advance, and he’d be golden. Then again, he had a gut feeling his space would be swapped out for another more fitting player. “I’ll hold it to you.”

H.G. narrowed her eyes like anyone could doubt her oaths, and snickered to herself at the agent’s lack of insight. According to her calculations, Pete was probably thinking up the time, place, and vintage bubbly for their rendezvous.

_What an adorable simpleton._

Or she could have perceived it all wrong, and he was the one playing her. That would be a first.

“Well, don’ keep me waitin’, kid,” Pete crooned in his own Bogart impression. “I don’ make plans that far ahead.”

“Plans for what?”

Myka’s question cut in like a shard of glass, its tone more eager than necessary.

H.G.’s posture straightened, but no other reaction ensued.

“It’s a private club,” Pete replied curtly. He rocked his head left and then right in a manner of haughty righteousness. “Unless you’ve been divorced…”

“Not likely, however, the man we are tracking down is, so how about we focus on him?”

“Did the manager say anything that would point to Lewis’ whereabouts?” H.G. inquired.

“I’m afraid not. According to the records no one under that name or any of the other aliases has checked into this hotel the last four months.” Myka folded her arms, face scrunching into a frown. “I can’t help but think I missed something. Am I doing something wrong? Or am I just looking too hard into this?”

Shifting anxiously, Myka’s hand slipped into the pocket of her trousers. Her fingers encapsulated what was inside, turning it over like a dream. Soon an easy breath came, her anxiety quelled by some unknowable force.

“God damn it, you’re a doctor not a super secret spy!”

“ _Star Trek_ ,” Myka submitted flatly.

Pete gleefully fist pumped the air. “There is hope for you yet, my young padawan.”

There was a deadpan response.

“What? You’ve seen _Star Trek_ but not _Star Wars_? We cannot be friends. No, no, no.”

“I didn’t know I was signing up for that position.”

Pete drew a hurt frown. “Well, if you were… friend request de-nied.” He snapped his finger, waving it back in forth as he did. “H.G., tell me you’ve got some good common sense and have seen _Star Wars_.”

“Of course.”

“Yes!”

When Pete was out of earshot Myka leaned in to whisper, “Liar. You’ve never seen _Star Wars_.”

“I’ve read a few expanded universe novels,” defended H.G. with a shrug. She followed Pete leaving the brunette to shout after her.

“That SO does not count!”

* * *

Plan B, as Myka so affectionately called it, entailed the investigation of surrounding pawnshops, antique dealers, thrift stores, and what Pete adoringly named “ye olde junk shops.” As a lawyer who dealt in black market antiquities, Lewis would have frequented those places. They were bound to find someone who knew the Webb name in the antiquities circle and that much closer to finding their suspect and the artifact in question.

On the second stop on their list H.G. pulled the solo card and insisted there was a particular lead she wanted to scout out – on her own. Myka offered to assist, but was turned down with the assertion that an author of “such little prominence yet stalwart endeavors” needed no support in a quick jaunt through the library archives. Just what basis there was for a searching the library was not given. The downcast expression caused H.G. to feel a stab of remorse for leaving her to the agent man child, but the lead H.G. was to follow up on was something she had to do on her own and it was essential that it be on her terms. Myka could never be involved.

One cab ride later the heels of her boots clunked down bustling High Street in a town on the fringes of London – Bromley, to be exact. The village was speckled with brick villas and double-fronted stuccoed inns. On the one side where H.G. walked was a tailoring business, a fishmongery, butchery, and a rag-and-bone merchandiser. Established on a corner across the way was Market Square. There were little to no children on this side of town, yet there was no shortage of automobiles, buses, cyclists, and pedestrians.

H.G. came to a halt before a three-story residence above a dusty old shop. The sign above the merchandise window read, _China Glass and Staffordshire Warehouse_. Under the guise of a midday sun, she could hardly color herself surprised that the store lights were off and the door locked to customers. The place couldn’t have received much traffic in modern, high-tech times such as these.

H.G. shut her eyes, breathed once, then again. With considerable effort, she raised her deadweight arm to cast the end of a fist against the reddish brown heartwood. Three knocks. Nothing. She opened her eyes and searched the cracks in the 30 year old door. The finish was cracked and chipping in random places. The door showed signs of wear and little care. She struck it an additional three times, louder.

At the exact moment she decided to turn away the lock clicked soundly. The mahogany door that had shined and welcomed those of years past opened. A man of equal height, but considerably greyer with age stared back into the eyes of his caller.

H.G. was startled at the view, but there was something to be said for the eyes; dark, unyielding, and oddly youthful as eight years ago. Her throat went dry suddenly for fear of stumbling. More surprising than the sight of the old man was how stripped of confidence her voice uttered greeting.

“Hello, Father.”


	8. Chapter 8

Pete was in a shop supplied with numerous antiques some dating back to the 19th century and earlier. Shelves upon shelves lined the four walls. Tables, chairs, and all manner of furniture strained under what could no more eloquently be described as _stuff_.

The possibility that one was an artifact increased tenfold with every step taken deep into every dreary store. Pete paid no mind and used no gloves in his own juvenile investigations. All it took was one shiny enigma to catch his attention and soon his feet sauntered in its direction. Of course, there was no reason to search for the stone in these parts. Lewis Webb lacked the stupidity to sell the Rosetta Stone, not because it could easily attract the attention of the media, but because no antique shop in the world possessed the funds necessary to take the thing off anyone’s hands. And Lewis Webb wasn’t anyone; he had been in the black market business long enough to know the names of those who would pay handsomely.

What assistance the shops could lend to the agents came in the form of information. Hence Myka’s light interrogation of the antique store owner. Pete would have taken point on this one, but his partner knew more of the workings of antique dealings. When asked how she picked up the expertise Myka briefly mentioned her father’s book business. Whatever reason for the clipped explanation she must have learned well because she got the past two owners talking (though not lucky enough to extract material pertinent to Lewis). Pete did his part and left her to it, letting his childish curiosities wander amongst potential artifacts.

“Sir, I understand this may sound like a strange request but may I have a look at your records?”

“I don’t see why not. You said you and your partner are with the authorities?”

There was a thud followed by a resounding crash. Myka peeked behind the owner who had turned to the sound. Sure enough Pete was scrambling to pick up the rusted toy fire truck from its five foot drop from a shelf. His mouth broke into a sheepish grin as the owner watched the wayward fire ladder getting reattached, haphazardly.

The hiss was piercing. “ _Pete!_ ”

Eyebrows soaring, Pete threw the truck back where his curiosity almost killed it. He touched his chin nervously, searching about for something ‘agently’ to do that would restore his image. The glare he was receiving was about as similar to his boss’ regular scowls. It was scary, actually, how they both gave him that same spine tingling chill.

With a violent thrust Myka’s arm pointed to the door. Five seconds later the bell chimed poor agent Lattimer’s exit.

“That’s right.” She gave the owner an apologetic smile while simultaneously feeling the prickling sense of embarrassment. “We are with the authorities. But you’re not in trouble. We are not here about any illegal dealings, just information on our suspect. Truthfully, the badge is just to assure you of our good intentions. Now, how about those records?”

It didn’t take long. Pete waited patiently as he only could outside the antique shop. Every once and a while he’d squint through the glass, catching Myka looking at some book ( _what’s new?)_ and indicate to his watch that time was of the essence. She shooed him and used those glare-y eyes. Pete was left to wait some more. Though patience was not his forte, thankfully his place on the sidewalk didn’t resemble ‘the corner’ he so often endured whenever young Pete played a prank on his sister. Not that he was in trouble.

“Well, if you hear from Mr. Webb or get word of his whereabouts please call.”

The store owner opened the door for Myka and gave her a good natured smile and wave. Pete jerked his head back at receiving another glare for the books.

“How come you get smiles galore and I get treated like some threat to the royal throne?”

“Because I don’t break his things without paying for them.”

“Wait, he actually expected me to pay for that thing? The fire ladder was fine. It just needed a little necessary force to stick back on...” his voice dragged off at his partner’s squinting eyes and cocked head which could pass for disagreement (Pete couldn’t tell this early in their work relationship). With a sigh he threw up a hand and groaned, “Okay. I’ll go back in.”

“Too late now.” She looped an arm around Pete’s and guided him in the other direction. He no doubt deserved the cold farewell, but his wallet would go undamaged. She couldn’t help herself, but a grin came to her lips. For whatever reason, Myka felt the need to protect this juvenile. “The sooner we find Lewis Webb and the artifact the sooner we can return it to the safety of the Warehouse before anyone else gets their hands on it.”

“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”

“Yeah, since you’re such a fine example of duty bound law enforcement.”

Pete smiled pointedly, shooting back with a snobbery he picked up from their other partner, “At least I’m a real agent.”

The smile was annoying and Myka’s patience was waning. Disengaging her arm from Pete’s she quickened her pace towards their next stop, throwing over her shoulder, “Come on, Lattimer.”

“Man, someone has big time authority issues.”

The next antique store was just a few blocks away and likely to be more promising than the last. It was a larger business and according to internet reviews received quite a bit of tourist traffic. If Myka were a betting woman she’d say they’d learn _something_ from this lead. That or it was back to the drawing board.

“Where does that come from by the way?”

“What?”

“Those authority issues,” elaborate Pete. He receives an innocent look in return. “So punching me in the shoulder is just your way of showing your love and affection? Huh, and you call me the child.”

“It was once, and you deserved it after bribing that bell hopper for information. It’s _unethical_ ,” she affirmed with deep conviction when Pete’s attention began to wander. “And I do not express emotion through violence. You, however, seem the type that could use a lesson in the department of emotional restraint,” Myka muttered, recalling the numerous times her partner flirted with every living, breathing woman. To call him a serial flirt was an understatement.

“Yeah, well it worked on H.G.”

Myka stopped in her tracks. “What worked on H.G.?”

“You heard right. Flashed her the pearly whites and turned on the ol’ Lattimer charm. She was like putty in my hands.”

Something irrational and searing like magma rolled to a boil within Myka. She stepped towards the man, unable to distinguish the need to scream or punch him or push him into oncoming traffic. Anger was so constant in her thoughts she couldn’t know for what reason. “You _hit_ on her?!”

“Well, who wouldn’t? She. Is. _Fiiine_. Especially with that British accent. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t.”

Chin dropping, she turned her blazing browns elsewhere and mumbled.

“What was that?”

“I said that’s none of your business,” she repeated, chin up this time and wildly defiant.

“Oh, hey, _HEY_ , hey! So there is something going on between you and H.G. I _knew_ it!”

“First of all, there is nothing ‘going on,’” she punctuated with air quotes, “’between H.G. and I. She’s my friend. That’s all. Secondly, you were baiting me?”

Pete nodded harmlessly.

Myka punched his shoulder a second time that day.

“Ow!”

“There’s a place for people like you.”

“What, the bronzer? No, no. See, that’s for the Hitlers and Stalins of the world, not roguishly good looking men of my nature.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of H-E –“

“Double hockey sticks? Harsh Mykes. That’s harsh.”

Myka was about to snap about the new pet name, but she was interrupted by a nearby commotion. Down an alleyway a door crashed open against the brick with so much force it almost came off its hinges.

“Oi!” screamed a fragile, studious looking woman. The man she ran out the door was sprinting down the alley and picking up enough speed to evade her. “I’m calling the coppers you little bastard!”

“Hey, is that the back entrance to our antique store?”

“Yeah, and someone seems to know something we don’t,” Pete said, indicating to the “bastard” fugitive. Hopping on the balls of his feet a few times, he threw himself forward for the chase with Myka close behind.

The new suspect was lithe enough to get some distance on two highly athletic agents and smart enough to lose them in a congested area. Shooting out of the end of the alley Pete and Myka came to a screeching halt. Vehicles and red double-decker buses zoomed right and left on the street, honking against the jogger with a death wish. Myka predicted the man’s route and tapped Pete on his shoulder to follow her. Skipping through traffic they reached the other side of the street. They pushed through a field of pedestrians until they rounded a corner into another alley. Slightly out of breath, Myka drew her gun in the deserted lane and pounded the pavement with a newfound burst of speed. Though her limbs were burning from the spontaneous chase, she was gaining on their suspect and acclimating herself to the rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins. Never had she experienced a high risk situation such as this. The only action she used to get was threatening e-mails from the occasional failing student (even if it was in a chair at her desk those messages still got her heart pumping).

_When Artie said this was going to be life threatening I guess he wasn’t overselling it._

Pete came up beside her, huffing in equal exertion. “Put that thing away,” he said through clenched teeth. He drew his own weapon, which had a far more innovative appearance. “I got this.”

A stream of sizzling lightening shot from the gun’s barrel. The suspect went down like a sack of potatoes and stayed down.

Myka bent down to check his pulse. When satisfied that he was alive, yet incapacitated, she narrowed her eyes at the instrument responsible. “What the hell _is_ that thing? Is that standard issue?”

Pete, beaming with pride and sauntering up like an overzealous extra in a Clint Eastwood film, twirled the weapon around his finger. “It is for Warehouse agents.” He blew on the muzzle and holstered it.

Minutes later the apprehended runaway woke up with his back against the alley wall. Shifting in his seated position his head wobbled unsteadily. He held it up with the heel of his hand, squeezing his eyes shut, then opening them and shaking his head.

“The vertigo will wear off.” Pete informed, arms crossed. “Happens when you get shot by Tesla’s finest.”

“Shot by what now?”

“Oh, you don’t know? Well, see, years ago there was this scientist –“

“You’ll have to excuse my partner,” Myka interceded. “He’s a bit worn-out from the run.” She continued over Pete’s sputtering attempts to deny the claim; something about high school wrestling and firm pecs. “Can you tell us why you were running out of that antique store? And from us, for that matter?”

“I’m afraid I can’t. It’s need to know.”

“Oh, I’ll _tell_ you what you need to know…”

“Pete.” Myka pacified with a hand to her partner’s arm before kneeling before the suspect. “No civilian uses those words. You’re CIA, aren’t you?”

“FBI. But you, however, are not any of the acronyms.”

“I am,” Pete said and then pointed to the brunette. “She’s not.”

“ _Pete!_ Of course I am. Myka Bering of Secret Service.” She flipped out her badge, its gold plate shining before the FBI agent.

“No you’re not,” he said, staring her in the eyes with shrewd wisdom. He didn’t even look at her credentials.

Returning the challenge in kind, Myka’s eyes narrowed. She bit her lip through a detailed study of this FBI agent. His hair was closely cut, his eyes a handsome blue. A flight from Washington to London and tireless investigation would explain the two day stubble. His jacket was leather, slightly worn, but average. His build was athletic and he certainly ran like a trained agent. There was also a slight prominence under his arm to suggest a firearm.

Details were telling and they told Myka this man was not throwing them off. “What is your name?”

After clearing the grogginess from his throat, he stretched forth his hand, mouth offering a half grin and soft eyes.

“Steve Jinks.”

* * *

For the first five years of her life this man was known as “Da.” Now, some twenty-five years later after having a child of her own and been reformed from her parent’s supervision H.G. found herself throwing the word “father” around rather freely. From her lips it sounded formal and not at all coming from the voice of the Englishwoman he raised. This was the voice of a woman with a new country. She had a family, financial stability, and freedom that was an improvement from her previous life at Atlas House and Webb Manor. Plain and simple, H.G. had choices. For once in her life she could exert power over her own circumstances and change the course of her future. H.G’s future, H.G.’s _life_ was not her father’s or her mother’s or her ex-husband’s. It was hers to do with as she willed.

H.G. made note of her father’s beard which had outgrown its usual trimmed appearance. It was not the scratchy tuft that could scratch the cheeks of her childhood. H.G. didn’t know why he decided to grow out the thing and she didn’t care to ask. Perhaps he took the adopted name of “Grizzly Da” a bit too seriously or maybe he was just an old man who hadn’t a care in the world for politics much less how his beard was trimmed. For whatever reason, H.G. could still feel the prickly hairs course up against her face.

“Have some cake, love. I baked them fresh this morning.”

A platter of H.G.’s childhood guilty pleasure appeared on the coffee table between her and Joseph Wells. Sponge cake flavored with lemon and almond was the perfect partner to afternoon tea. The Wells’ children grew up with miniature cakes, their mother baking the concoction in smaller sized loaf tins and cutting then to bite size pieces. Why Sarah Wells continued the tradition when her little ones became adults was a mystery, but then again H.G. never spoke to her mother.

“Thank you, no, Mother.”

“But they’re your favorite. And you’re so skinny! Joe, look at those bony arms and tell her to eat something.”

“Helena is an adult.” He cracked open the daily paper as he lounged back on his sofa. “She can eat what she wants.”

“Will you be saying that when we find her frail, pallid body in some hospital bed? Will you say ‘she ate what she wanted’ while you stood by letting it happen?”

“Mother, really. I’m fine.”

Sarah was already on the move. “I’ll just get some jam.”

Leaning against the arm of her sofa in defeat, H.G.’s fingers rubbed at her forehead. She sighed and took in the parlor of her childhood home. Having been led through her father’s dusty, underused shop into the back, the rest of the house looked just as antiquated: cushions sagged to the ghost of its patrons, walls and floorboards creaked for no reason, lamp bulbs hummed their last wattage, and the smell… Paraffin always permeated every corner of the house, but H.G. forgot how prevalent it was. Blame was placed on her father’s constant battle to kill all the vermin in Atlas House. The unforgettable smell tickling her nostrils indicated it was a losing battle.

Her father’s stubble and the smell of oil may remain little more than nostalgic memory, but there were other things about her childhood home that brought on more enduring times. Her mother’s cakes, for one, and the short scratches in the once polished parquet floor. Running parallel and permanent through the years they were a ghost to her size four shoes making tracks to the front house.

It was those evenings little H.G., strung out on cakes and illusory freedom, would run about her father’s shop like a stock repair hurricane. Everything from sports equipment to jam pots were already in poor shape, so the girl took it upon herself to glue (because tools were not within her minimal reach) their necessary parts back to life. It was a haphazard effort not without sticky fingers or the bizarre stares from customers, but for so small a child the behavior foreshadowed the unconventional architect she would become. Even as an adult H.G. still needed the assistance of stimulants such as coffee or the occasional sponge cake, but her devices were improvements from craft glue.

“How is the business?” H.G. asked after an awkward few moments.

Joseph’s eyes held the paper. “As good as it can be.”

She nodded, hiding her grimace. Talking with her father was like having a conversation with a chess player – sharp as a tack but silent as the grave. Was it too much to ask for a little enthusiasm? He hadn’t seen his daughter in eight years and he sat there like he hadn’t disowned her, like no time had passed at all. He was treating her like she was just stopping by for a chat and a bite before heading to the market. It hurt H.G. and left her feeling the traditional resentment that came from being a part of the Wells family. Though considering the terms they left on she was hardly deserving of a warm welcome and stimulating conversation.

“And Charles? Is he well?”

Joseph met her eyes for the first time since she showed up on his doorstep. “Charles is with a grandiose publisher in London. Finest book editor if I ever saw one. Dear boy knows his stuff.” His grizzly cheeks puffed around a stale grin before he went back to his reading.

“A book editor?” H.G.’s face soured. She almost had to hold back a disgusted yacking sound. It was a bitter taste, the words ‘book editor’ and ‘Charles,’ that almost made her get the publishing company on the phone right then and demand what right they had in employing _her_ brother. “But he’s too ostentatious to be a book editor. How on earth does he make his deadlines?”

A tongue clucking, “tut-tut-tut” adjoined Sarah and her jars of marmalade and blackberry.

“After what you put your brother through he deserves a bit of fortune and notoriety.”

Sarah Wells was not mincing her words. Charles indeed was a frequent target of H.G.’s bitterness. The spoiled eldest of two, Charles Wells knew his reputation before it even became him. He was less precocious than his sister, of course, but he certainly knew what he wanted and his parents cherished his ambition. Before she grew out of such childish fantasies, H.G. secretly resented the light her brother basked in and unquestionably gave him hell for it. Though taller than H.G. he would end up a weekly victim of her childish aggressions. She laid hand on his precious toys when she knew he didn’t approve and when he fussed over such intrusions he defended himself and his property with vigor. Charles’ valiant efforts, which amounted to hollering, however, were no match for a good kick in the shins and an inflight fork. In short, H.G. made an early career out of terrorizing her brother.

“You were such a tiresome child,” Sarah recalled, shaking a head that was obviously in the clouds.

“Yes, Mum.”

Joseph sniffed, continuing through the sports section. “She still is.”

H.G. sighed and touched a tongue to the back of her teeth. “I was hoping we could discuss why I –“

“Do you go to Sunday church, darling?”

If H.G. was guilty of terrorizing Charles, Sarah was guilty of terrorizing her children with God. Sarah grew up in a family of severe Protestants and instilled the same teachings in the Wells household. If there was anything H.G. didn’t miss from living in Atlas House it was her mother’s constant pestering on religion. She would almost rather attend the bloody church than receive instruction on English Puritan fundamentalism.

“I cannot say I go regularly,” H.G. muttered.

“You should join your father and I next Sunday. Do you remember Walter Hamilton? I’ve seen him and his mother at Mass a few times. Several young fellows from school stuck around: Thomas Cabot, George Stanway. And Amir Biram, he’s still in town, too, you know.” Sarah’s wink was non-too-subtle.

“I did not know that, Mother, no.”

“We should invite him over for dinner. Wouldn’t that be splendid?”

Flushed to the tips of her ears, H.G. had finally suffered through as much as she could tolerate. “I would like to talk,” she barked through her teeth, “about why I’ve come.”

“Well, alright love. No need to get snippy. You could have just said so.”

“Did Lewis send you?”

“Lewis?” H.G. frowned at Joseph. “Why would he _send_ me here? You do remember, father, that Lewis and I are divorced.”

“He stopped by a few days ago – or was supposed to. Something must have come up. I assumed he sent you instead.”

A shiver passed through H.G. from head to toe. The mention of Lewis could make her blistering with rage but the suggestion that he was looking for her, or heaven forbid seeking out Christina sparked a completely different reaction. Dry mouth opening wordlessly, H.G. went rigid with a fear she found that beaten and bloody man in a room of her own home.

* * *

Pete picked the lock with ease. It could have been more problematic had Steve not barreled through the door and weakened the lock mechanism in his escape. They could all thank Matt Brunster for Pete’s skills because the agent had an encounter with the wrong crowd back in his rebellious stage as a teenager (Brunster having gone to juvenile detention after picking the wrong door). While he and Steve flipped through records in the back office Myka distracted the antique store manager at the entrance.

How they came to trust Agent Steve Jinks was neither a forgone conclusion nor a decision lightly came to.

“What is the FBI still doing on this case?” Pete asked when they were still gathered in the alley. “Webb was released from prison two years ago. What trouble could he possibly get into this time?”

“A lot. Lewis Webb is no amateur and there is no such thing as reform for his kind of people. Trust me. I’ve been doing this probably longer than you two combined. Whatever relic he was hired to obtain is still out there. That means Webb is, too, and he is definitely up to know good.”

“Wait,” Myka held up a hand, “You don’t know what this artifact is, do you? How can you be FBI and not know what their prime suspect was illegally trading?”

Steve shrugged. “I know it is made out of basalt and it’s old, older than Christ himself.”

“Which means he knows nothing. Even more reason to drop him and continue with our investigation.” Pete clapped his hands together in finality and turned on his heel. He got a few feet down the alley, but there was no clicking of boots.

“I’m not satisfied,” Myka declared. “We’ve been going in circles ever since we arrived in London. Our leads have all been dead ends until now. _We_ need to know more.”

Pete’s ears pricked up at the emphasis on “we,” and detected a slight pleading in Myka’s eyes. She wanted to solve this case just as much as her partner did. She needed to. Myka was a methodical thinker and more intelligent than she ought to be, but Pete knew now that if he needed an extra gun in a tight situation he’d choose that SIG-Sauer for sure.

Although she had her doubts in the beginning Myka believed the nature of the Warehouse and its long spanning history. Loyalty shown in her eyes and mannerisms when she was near. Pete had a feeling – the feeling teenagers bitten with genetically engineered spiders get. Sometimes the feeling came in the form of screaming, other times in a soft whisper. The particular feeling Pete was experiencing in the alley was like sage advice coming from his Uncle Al telling him to be nice to his older sister.

Nodding slowly in understanding, Pete walked back to the other two. “Okay. What else can you tell us Jinksy?”

“Agent _Jinks_. It was part of my mission to gain access to records from that antique shop you saw me running from. Webb was known to do business on this side of town, so the chances of him showing up there are good. I was _trying_ to explain to the antiquities dealer that I was a federal agent, but she didn’t believe me.” Steve’s eyes wandered shyly like he knew he did something wrong. He muttered, “So I broke into the back office.”

“Even federal agents need a warrant to search a premise,” Myka pointed out, crossing her arms. “What have you got to hide?”

“Nothing. And I didn’t get a chance to find what I was tasked for in case you were wondering. The old lady ran me out of there before I even got to break open the file cabinet.”

Eyes diverting to the cement, Myka tapped a finger to her arm. She ran through the pros and cons, using her limited experience in coming to a solution. She may not be a federal investigator but she was a historical investigator. Both professions dealt with analysis and critical thinking and used virtually the same resources depending on what was being researched. Though Artie made it exhaustingly clear that her and H.G. were temporary, civilian consultants Myka was every bit the sleuth Pete Lattimer was. She would prove her worth and solve the case if it was the last thing she would do. Because she could handle it and she was goddamned smart that’s why. Most of all, this was the adventure she craved after spending years in her stuffy university office.

“Oh you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking,” Pete started. “Because if you are you can just go right back to not thinking it.”

“Do you actually know me well enough to know what I’m thinking?”

Steve looked blankly from one agent to the other.

“Well, no, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have instincts. And mine are telling me right now not to trust this kid.”

“Kid?” the agent piped up.

“We need all the help we can get. You whine so much about how H.G. and I aren’t trained field agents… This is your chance to bond with someone on your level. It would be good to have another agent on the case.”

“ _Bond?_ ” Pete and Steve gaped simultaneously. Neither seemed as enthusiastic as Myka who thought two males and two females rounded out the team rather nicely.

“You can still be team leader,” Myka permitted. She did so against her better judgment which was warning her how often she wanted to scream at his whorish tendencies.

“Whoa, whoa. He’s in charge? Him? I’m not okay with that.”

“You wouldn’t be.”

“Peeete.”

Square shoulders sagged with the exhalation. “Alright. Jinksy stays, but one insubordinate comment out of him and he’s out of here. And if he doesn’t get my jokes I’m not going to take that well. At all. It’s already a downer when you don’t laugh at them.”

“There’s always H.G.” Myka threw in and immediately regretted it.

“Oh yeah,” he drawled distantly with a smug grin, “there’s always her. Now that’s a woman who can take a punch line.”

Myka rolled her eyes and shook her head at Steve, indicating not to bother asking.

After a few quick twists from a lock picking instrument the two male agents gained access to the private office while Myka took on interference detail.

“Just what exactly were you sent here to find?”

From across the room Steve paged through a thin booklet, using a finger to draw down a list of deliveries and corresponding dates. “A hint, a clue – anything that will lead my people to Webb. Just because he did his time doesn’t mean we’re done with him. There are still cold cases waiting to be solved. Webb had insurmountable resources, all of which are helpful to the Bureau.”

“You actually think you can turn scum like Lewis Webb? The guy’s a skeevy lawyer with no morals or respect for artifacts.”

“Even skeevy lawyers have a price.”

Pete’s eyes soared up and over. “Didn’t know the government had that kind of money.”

Steve just locked his lips shut and went back to skimming data.

Moments later there were footsteps drawing near. And voices.

_“Ma’am, I’m really in the market for a new set of silverware. Would you please help me?”_

_“You’ll find them in kitchenware, dear.”_ The elderly antiquities dealer addressed the police officers she hailed, _“I knew that boy wasn’t FBI when I saw that badge of his. Probably nicked it from the toy store down the street.”_

_“Actually, the badge is real, Ma’am. Mr. Jinks is with the U.S. government, but according to this correspondence from DC he was suspended three weeks ago.”_

_“Hmph. Well, he right deserved it. Broke my door half off its hinges, he did! Children these days are so dreadfully disrespectful. Come along. I’ll show you where he committed his transgressions.”_

_“Where is kitchenware? Ma’am, please don’t go in there!”_

A thud sounded from the other side of the door. Both Pete and Steve froze, eyes wildly roving over the mess of files and papers they had disturbed in their investigation. The door knob jiggled before a stern order broadcasted from the policeman. Though barricading the door wouldn’t last long, Pete was impressed with Myka’s improvising abilities.

Mouthing to Steve, Pete instructed that they should skedaddle. He received a frown in return and so Pete shook his head exasperatedly and hissed, “Let’s. Go.”

The office door flew open to reveal two uniformed officers and the abysmal expression of Myka. She gave a shrug of ‘Hey, I tried’ before all three agents bolted, Myka for the entrance and the other two out the back.

“Aw, come on man!” Pete bellowed as he ran out the door with the police fast on his heels. “ _So_ not cool!”

Sprinting around the back of the store the two agents wound their way through the alleys, across streets, and hurdling over fences. It wasn’t long before they evaded the officer.

Pete keeled over from the exertion, heels digging into his knees. “I think we lost them.”

Steve nodded, catching his breath. “Come on. I’ve got a contact at the Bureau who still owes me a favor. He’ll get us out of the country with little trouble.”

“Not so fast, buddy. We still have to find Myka. The other officer followed her out the front so she probably was headed east.”

“There’s no time for that.”

“Hey! First of all, I have friends in high places too. I’ve escaped worse than the British po-po. Ever hear of the Russian mob? And second, I’m not leaving my partner behind and that is final.”

“She’s not even a real field agent,” Steve argued. His jaw clenched, showing his frustration. “Civilians are collateral damage, but if you’re really worried about her I think she can take care of herself. She seemed to catch up to me pretty easily the first time.”

“Are you deaf? She doesn’t get left behind. And I’m not just going to let her take the fall for something I did. I’m not a traitor like you.”

“You want to track down Webb? I’m your best option.”

“Hey, can you guys postpone this alpha male rivalry? I’d rather not get arrested on my first trip to London.”

The two agents turned simultaneously to the huffing figure of Myka. She pushed back her rowdy curls and gave the wide eyed stares a roguish smile.

“You really aren’t with the Secret Service, are you?”

“You’re one to talk, former G-Man.”

Steve actually cracked a smile before following Myka at a jog.

Pete hung back to throw up his arms and call out, “So you’ll laugh at _her_ jokes? She’s not even half as clever as she thinks she is.” He knew it was a weak comeback because his partners didn’t bother responding and because his words were lost to the wind.

“There’s one of them!”

The policemen drew out their night sticks and made a scramble for their criminal. With a cringe Pete flapped his arms like a windmill, propelling himself in the direction of Myka’s and Steve’s fleeing shadows.

* * *

“Why would Lewis contact you?” H.G. interrogated. Her knuckles were white as she clutched at the edges of the sofa. “He spent five years in prison. God knows what illegal activities he’s been up to. And why on earth would you let him come here? He ruined my life.”

“That is arguable.”

Sarah’s mouth opened in a gasp. “ _Joseph_ ,” she chided.

That seemed to spark a little life in the man who straightened and presented two fingers in a v-shape. “It takes two to end a marriage. And two to create one, for that matter. Helena knew what kind of man she was tying herself to.”

H.G. leaned forward, firing back, “But my daughter did not. She would have suffered a fate worse than my own if I stayed.” H.G. exhaled roughly, running a hand through her hair. “This is not what I came to talk about.”

“How is our granddaughter? Christina…”

Her mother’s voice was small and carried a weight of sadness. When H.G. gave birth to Christina she did so alone. Every push, scream, plea for the excruciating slice of pain to cease was done in the presence of a handful of nurses and a doctor. By then, H.G. Wells had no family and no friends. All she had after the wailing cries of a newborn filled her ears was her love, her Christina. All it took was an overnight stay in the maternity ward until mother and child left for a hotel. From there it was over the Atlantic to be welcomed by Lady Liberty. H.G. ripped their only grandchild away before they could even notice the resemblance in a velvety black head of hair and even darker squinting eyes. But H.G. had spent far too much time away from Atlas House and even longer from her mother’s sympathy to forgive.

So she gave her mother, her hopeful persistent mother, a shake of the head with lips firmly shut. No words were uttered but her eyes replied every meaning of ‘no’ to Sarah’s inquiry.

“I would not come back here unless my life was threatened,” H.G. stated with about as much venom as the paraffin in the air. It was harsh, she knew, but it had to be said. “My _family’s_ life,” she added, knowing her parents would understand her meaning. “Lewis’ less than legal dealings have come around to put my daughter and I in danger. If you can tell me anything about why Lewis wanted to see you or what he might be up to, now would be the time.”

Joseph held still, the creases parenthizing his eyes never changing. “Yes, this would be an appropriate time. Who knows when you’d show up on my doorstep again?” His head cocked in that way he used to reprimand his youngest for puttering around in his shop. Smoothing his tie down absently, Joseph took the time to examine H.G.’s grown up appearance. Her hair was as smooth and radiant as the tips that would fly upon the wind when he’d push her swing to the stars. He wished, fleetingly, that she had gotten that from his side. Her robust thirst for argument had certainly not changed, either. There were new features, too; deeper lines, thinner hands, a gaze less wandering than before. H.G. carried herself like a woman with priorities. There was a heavy weight upon her, one Joseph recognized immediately, having experienced the similar joys and pains of parenting. She was also taller, but none too for a Wells.

When he took in all he could without asking of her, Joseph met H.G.’s eyes with businesslike concern. When he spoke he did so not as a father but as a lonesome shopkeeper.

“Last week I received a call from Webb. He wished to come by and discuss something.”

“Was it Christina? Did he wish to know where my daughter is?”

“No, he did not,” Joseph replied, easing H.G.’s nerves with the surety in his voice. “Which left me to believe it concerned his business. As you know, after Webb was deported his house and all his possessions were given to the Wells estate. As per his will everything went to you, however, under the circumstances your mother and I appropriated the majority.”

What Joseph failed to point out and what H.G. seethed day and night for eight years about was the exact nature of the ‘circumstances’ he spoke of. Lewis’ property went to Joseph and Sarah because H.G. was no longer a Wells. Emancipated from her husband, her parents, her brother, and the entire island itself, H.G. thereby had a hand in casting herself out of the family and all the title and riches it afforded. The shop would not be hers, her father’s well-loved garden would rot in the hands of the next tenant, and any last savings would go to Charles. It never bothered her, not profiting what little the Wells owned, nor that Christina wouldn’t either. What did keep her up at night was the swiftness with which her memory was chucked out the window. Callous as her first winter in Chicago, Joseph cast her out like one of Atlas House’s notorious pests. He couldn’t poison her into a permanent, loveless marriage, so he stripped her of the Wells name and kicked her to the curb.

“He sought me out for one item in particular. I hardly thought he was calling to schedule a chat and to share a pint,” Joseph muttered with a chortle. “He knew what was left of his belongings lied in my home.”

“Why did you not simply throw it away? Why keep his things?”

“Have you seen my shop, dear?” H.G. flinched at his patronizing tone of the name. It used to be said with so much more warmth. “Have you seen the dust collecting on the shelves? The empty shelves? I needed the merchandise as I needed the business. The precious trinkets he had stashed away were bequeathed to me and _my_ rainy day.”

“Alright. You have made your point.” H.G. rolled her eyes. Her father certainly hadn’t lost his necessity for melodrama. “What was the object he wished to obtain?”

“Some sorry excuse for chest armor. The kind of thing seen in science fiction with wires and circuitry under the plating. But the rust gives it an authenticity you won’t find in other shops,” Joseph mentioned smugly as if he were talking to a competitor. “Would have sold straightaway if it were a full suit of armor.”

“And it is still in your possession?”

He shrugged. “Chap didn’t show up. Suppose the thing’s still mine.” The smile was haughty. Joseph’s reasons for wanting his daughter’s marriage to endure may have been conventional, but he always thought Lewis Webb was a prick.

H.G. lay back into the sofa with a dilemma to solve. Hand draped over the chair’s arm she met a thumb and forefinger in an aggressive match of force.

_What on earth could I say?_

It had been eight years. Eight long years marked by bright, smiling Christina and isolated corners of a café. No phone calls, e-mails, or visits. No advice on how to quell the screams of a teething child. Not a single inquiry into where her elder brother was and what grand things he was doing with his life. She snagged her bottom lip between her teeth, pulling for inspiration. More than anything, she craved support.

_I wish Myka were here._

H.G.’s eyes were drawn to the scratches in the floor, then the plate of cakes. She smelled the paraffin, the preserves, the musty decay of the shop. She heard a melody of creaks and drones only detected in a house of this age. When the evidence of childhood memories had been drunk in she addressed the man across from her.

“Would you be willing, in theory, to amend that declaration?”

* * *

The decision on what to do with former FBI agent Steve Jinks was postponed until they could update Artie. It was certainly a possibility that their boss wouldn’t be over the moon about recruiting yet another outsider. Pete was still on the fence due to various quips on Britishisms not being returned with a hoot or a “good one, Pete” and there was also the matter of Steve lying about his status as an FBI agent. Myka seemed to trust this stranger’s instincts. After all, he seemed to spot her Secret Service story as a fake from the get go.

With Steve following, Pete and Myka walked back to their hotel. Myka wondered where H.G. was and if her library research was panning out. Myka hoped they would meet up soon for she desperately wanted to fill H.G. in on what she had just been through. Chasing after former FBI agents, _getting_ chased by the British police, luring the authorities under false pretenses which was most definitely a criminal offense. It was exciting and it was scary and if it wasn’t recounted Myka would burst at the seams. She wanted to share these things with her friend because there was no one else to tell. Myka didn’t have anyone else and she sure didn’t trust anyone more than she did H.G.

_And I miss her._

Pete’s arms swung lightly at his sides as they made their way down the last block to their hotel. Their shoulders bumped occasionally, but neither seemed to mind or mention it.

“You know, it’s not written anywhere that friends can’t become more than that.”

Myka sighed, her tongue pushing at the inside of her cheek. She craned her neck at an almost unnatural angle in order to give the impression that she was suffering from the conversation. “When in the past 48 hours that we’ve known each other have I ever given you the impression that I was interested in you?”

Pete chuckled. After swallowing down his amusement he soon became serious, which was a new role he’d taken on since partnering up with the professor. “While I’m flattered that you now consider me your friend, I was actually referring to your other friend, H.G. All it took was a bit of innocent flirtation earlier for you to go all passive aggressive on me.”

“I was _not_ passive aggressive.”

“Right, because the look you’re giving me right now does not make me want to disarm you anymore than last time. Look, I get it, Mykes. You might not, but I do. I get vibes, remember? These feelings you have for H.G. may be the friendly kind, but there’s more to it. And not knowing what ‘more’ means is what’s put you so on edge whenever I so much as speak her name.”

“This is some deep stuff – even for you. Get to the point, Lattimer.”

“You’re afraid that H.G. won’t want the same. She won’t want _more_ , whatever _more_ entails. But it’s okay to be scared. What’s not okay is bottling it up and taking your frustrations out on your partner.”

Myka rolled her eyes and scoffed, “I’m sure you can take it.”

“Tell me something.” Pete stopped walking, drawing his hands to his hips. “Are you happy?”

Myka turned around. She folded her arms over her chest and studied Pete, looking for sarcasm. There was none to be found in the troubled lines carved into his expression. “Sure.”

Pete took a step. “Are you going to stay that way five, maybe ten years down the road and she’s still just your friend?” He seized another stride. “The friend you meet for coffee, share girl gossip with, and go to the movies with once a week?” Pete’s approach never stopped, his next step bringing him closer. Myka watched him take it, but was mentally somewhere far and long away. “The friend whose daughter will get married on an altar while you’re sitting in the back row with the rest of the friends and minor acquaintances? Because if you’re fine with that life, if that kind of friendship brings you the happiness you feel now, then I’m totally wrong about your taste in future spouses and you should stop listening to me.”

The word ‘stop’ caused Myka’s mind to open to the present. All her vulnerabilities of the past and visions of the future were put back in that familiar place of whispered doubts and shadowed fears. Looking up, what she saw was Pete standing in front of her like the partner that had her back and the guy who would be her friend for years to come. Pete would be that annoying brother who presented his masticated lunch with an open mouth, take her punches in the shoulder with whiny valor, and hug her weeping body when she was too weak to push. Pete would continue to surprise her because he was a good man and his advice would often come to be heeded.

“You watch way too many romance films.”

“But at least I’ve got diversity,” Pete pointed out with a finger. He didn’t bother holding back the grin. It was finally that thankful day when his partner made fun of his obsession with movies. In truth, he was more of a horror buff, but _Casablanca_ was a sure fire classic in anyone’s book. The important thing was Myka made a joke in a flat, holier-than-thou manner only unique to her, and there was a hint of a smile when it was delivered.

Pete’s eyes were drawn to movement. He indicated with his chin. “What’s that you got there?”

The hand slipped out of her pocket, empty. “Nothing. Ready to grab some of that room service you like so much?”

Just the suggestion had Pete walking again, giving his approval with a rub of a belly and a shout to Steve that “last one there is paying the bill!”

Myka’s hand and all its five digits stretched as if casting off a tingle before staying mutely still beside her thigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characterizations of Atlas House and Sarah and Joseph Wells are historically accurate. Know that liberties were taken with H.G.’s relationship with her parents. And the occurrence of H.G. kicking the shins of his/her brother and throwing a fork at him in a tantrum is not a fabrication! During his childhood, H.G. Wells had a very antagonistic relationship with his brothers, apparently.


	9. Chapter 9

“There a renaissance fair in town?”

H.G. smirked. Clutching the leather strap fastening front armor to back, she concealed it behind her. The armor had matured through years of corrosion and dents caused from mishandling, but it still gave off a shine. In the middle of a 21st century hotel lobby an antique like this didn’t failed to attract curious stares.

“Perhaps we might discuss this in more confidential quarters?” she suggested, eyeing the bustling lobby. It also weighed a god awful ton, so getting the bugger off her hands would be another reason to keep things moving.

Pete scooted off leaving H.G. with the sight of a very anxious looking professor. Myka’s arms were firmly at her sides and her hair looked just as wild probably from the fingers that twirled through the vast 30 minutes of waiting.

“Myka,” she greeted with a nod.

“Where have you been? Did you get anywhere with your lead? Why didn’t you call? I was worried about you. Well, _we_ – _we_ were… worried.”

A hand lay upon Myka’s shoulder. “All in good time.”

H.G. smiled, easing her friend’s worry when there was no need for such fretting. In truth, the Wells family reunion was rather unexpected and anxiety inducing, but things were generally left on a good note, which was to say a better one than last time H.G. departed Atlas House. She never anticipated the hug her mother offered nor the swiftness with which it was granted. H.G. did not leave with her father’s blessing, but that _was_ expected. Then again, there was a hint of nod at her waving departure, and Joseph Wells never nodded his goodbye’s, not to anyone, not even his children.

Finally in the privacy of Pete’s room, H.G. dropped her items on the bed with relief. The armor went down heavily while a disposable plate covered by plastic wrap fell about as equally profound.

Nose in the air, Pete zeroed in on the second item like a hungry dog who wanted his bone. “Oo, what are these?”

Myka scrunched her face at the sweets and the man grabbing after them with dedication. “Pete.”

“What?”

Holding the semi-disgusted expression she explained, “You _just_ had lunch.”

“Welp, I didn’ haff desserd.” His eyes bulged then. Head jerking back he lifted the cake for a better look. “Mm, hey these are good!”

H.G. smiled. “Courtesy of Mrs. Wells.”

“Your mom?” Myka gaped. A pang suddenly hit her at the realization that H.G. went to see her parents and didn’t have the mind to tell her. Myka was aware of the fragile relationship. That H.G. didn’t need her support was, to say the least, disappointing. Myka wanted to be _needed_. That H.G. was in the position to be a damsel in distress was archaic and backward, yet somehow impeccably consistent. The single mother had always been in a state of isolation; abandoned by family and deceived by a lover. By her own means H.G. managed. For how much longer no one could know for sure.

They had been friends for months, which in Myka’s experience was the longest friendship she ever had and liked. It couldn’t be a trust thing for since that night in the park H.G. relinquished the deepest of secrets about herself no one else had the pleasure (or the burden) of knowing. It occurred then between Pete’s smacking mouth and H.G.’s frown that Myka had no right to judge. H.G. had her reasons, she always did, and Myka would respect that. “H-how did that go?” she asked softly, knowing it must not have been easy showing up to the parents who disowned you and your daughter.

“An experience not worth noting,” H.G. replied. The perplexity in her words opened the door for curiosity but her firm gaze into Myka’s shut it immediately.

“I like your mom,” Pete declared after swallowing down his third cake. “When can we meet more of these things – I mean, _her_. When can we meet her?”

H.G. simply glared and shook her head like she would with Christina. “Care to share with the rest of us?”

In his cake-hazed mind, Pete caught the gesture H.G. threw at the dwindling plate of bakery. “Om, sorry.” He dropped the half-eaten loaf piece and brushed his fingers against his jacket. Myka scowled and elbowed him.

“It’s all right,” H.G. said. “I had my fill for 20 some years.”

“Must have been a delicious 20 years.”

“The grass is greener…” H.G. drawled, eyebrow rising.

Following a knock and a key card beep, Steve passed through the door. “You must be H.G.,” he greeted with a smile and an outstretched hand. “I’m Agent Jinks.”

Eyes panning from the hand to the new face before her, H.G. narrowed her eyes at the distinguished title. “Agent?”

“Of the FBI.”

“Former,” Pete droned helpfully.

“I _was_ FBI, until my superiors ordered me to let the Webb case go. Lewis is no longer in U.S. jurisdiction, and the Bureau, apparently, have bigger fish to fry. He’s Europe’s problem now, that’s the official position. Long story short, I didn’t exactly agree with that directive. Now I have a permanent red mark in my file. And…” his hands lifted and fell back against his thighs in an expression of ‘oh well,’ “… here I am. I can assure you that our goal is one in the same. If anyone wants to apprehend Lewis Webb more than you it’s me. You can call me Steve.”

After giving a nod of comprehension H.G. looked over to Myka who gave her a nod in return. It was the only opinion that mattered.

“Of course,” H.G. smiled at her new acquaintance and grasped the hand, “Steve. You may address me as ‘Miss Wells.’”

“That’s formal,” Steve remarked with a nervous laugh, “and a mouthful.”

“Only two syllables, in fact. No more than the name my friends have the privilege of speaking.”

“Oh, wow, you consider me your friend?” Pete’s hand covered his heart as he basked in the unintentional ego booster. “Aw, well that means a lot. Thanks, H.G.”

While it was true H.G. never trusted well or fast, Pete was a very stark exception. There was something sweet and innocent in those brown eyes, and he possessed a stamina to protect those he cared about. Steve, however, was a mystery idly waiting to be uncovered. While Pete was open with his emotions this new agent hid behind the mask of his ice blue eyes. The smile may be genuine but until H.G. knew more about this Agent Jinks she would play along from a distance. “I think it’s only fair,” she shrugged, casting her innocence on the FBI agent, “don’t you?”

Wheezing out another chuckle, Steve scratched the back of his neck. He grilled terrorists less difficult than this woman. “Can’t argue with that.”

“Okay,” Myka took a deep breath amid the air heavy with awkwardness, “now that introductions have been made we should probably gather what we know about the case. Steve?”

“Right. It seems my hunch that the antique store owner was hiding something was correct.” From his pocket he procured a list of dates and item numbers. “Several pieces were sold to the store on the same day. And they all were shipped from the same location. If I’m good with gut instincts, which you’ve now seen proven, my guess would be that Webb needed the money. Traveling with the items would draw attention, so he had them delivered to one of his frequent buyers in England.”

“Where were the pieces sent from?” Pete asked.

“France. _A rural château in_ La Roque-Gageac.”

“Our vacation home,” H.G. explained in a fleeting moment of reminiscence. “Wonderfully rustic and cozy, but hardly romantic when your spouse is off doing business the whole trip.” Knit brows were a sign of enduring marital frustrations, but the way her face relaxed at the understanding in Myka’s eyes revealed that it was all in the past. “It’s probably where he kept his most valued relics.”

“Didn’t Lewis’ property get transferred to the Wells estate?” asked Myka.

“Indeed. If Lewis had foreknowledge of my betrayal he would have ensured some of his possessions were kept out of Wells family hands – with the exception of one item in particular. Lewis meant to acquire something from his possessions at Atlas House. He contacted my father to ready the item but never showed up. This phone call took place right around when those pieces were sold to the antique store. As you might deduce, this information further backs up Mr. Jinks’ hunch.”

“Hence the Mony Python getup.” Pete picked up the breast plate for a closer look. He’d wanted to get his paws on it the moment H.G. came waltzing in with it. If only he could see how it looked on his masculine build. Artie didn’t have to know. “What would make Lewis want a piece of old rusted armor that bad?”

His Farnsworth buzzed just in time to answer. He flipped the hood in his usual and said, “Greetings, Sir Arthur of Univille!”

“Right,” Artie deadpanned. “I hope your investigation has been progressing. Or have you been playing _Name That Movie Quote_ during your costly trip to London?”

“No,” Pete replied, squinting with unconvincing certainty.

“Myka?”

“ _The Godfather_ , _Forrest Gump_ , _Casablanca_ , and just a little while ago _Monty Python_.”

“Don’t forget _Star Trek_ ,” H.G. piped up with a cheerful grin. She gave an innocent shrug to Pete’s glare.

“Traitors.”

“Pete, please stay on track. I’m counting on you to keep Dr. Bering and Miss Wells out of harm’s way.” Artie moved out of the image for a moment and returned with an armful of files. They dropped on his desk with a bang that made Pete jump a bit. “It looks like we have our guy. According to my source in Russia, a man by the name of Gaspard Lallement has a special interest in the Rosetta Stone. He’s a very wealthy French businessman and art collector and has spent years searching for the true stone. It’s not known how he knew about the copy in the British Museum, but his historical connection would explain how he knows what few know today. Lallement claims to be a descendent of Jacques-François Menou.”

“Menou,” Myka pulled from a mixture of memory and fresh research, “was a General in the French Army during the Egyptian expedition of 1798. He was one of the first, in fact, to lay eyes upon the stone. The French Officer who found the Rosetta Stone reported its discovery to his superior officer… _Menou_.”

“Correct,” Artie said. “Menou safeguarded it in his home in Alexandra. At that time he was a military governor of Rashid, the origin and namesake of the stone. The stone resided in Alexandria and was considered the general’s private property for two years until Napoleon ordered it to be taken to Cairo and placed in the Institut National. It is said the Emperor had a great curiosity in the Rosetta Stone. He had many copies made and sent to scholars across Europe. With that many copies flying around you can understand how easy it would be for the Warehouse to swap out the original with a fake. After copies and tests were completed the stone was transferred back to Alexandria in the care of Menou.”

“If General Menou considered the Rosetta Stone to be his personal property, then any relation of the Menou family would claim to the same right.” Myka paused in her historical ramblings and looked over Pete’s shoulder to address the man in the Farnsworth. “Artie, do we know for sure that Lallement is Menou’s heir?”

“There’s no way of proving it, but it would explain why he knows so much about the stone and is so relentless to rediscover it. If he was a descendent of Menou he would have grown up with stories of the stone and, perhaps, of its power.”

“So,” Pete began with an exhalation, “we have ourselves a rich snob who thinks he’s inherited the most significant find in archaeological history.” He stroked his chin, nodding to the challenge. “Swell.”

“H.G.?” Myka tipped her head at the woman contemplating harder than _The Thinker_. On the outside her dark eyes roved the floor like it was a puzzle, arms folded, bottom lip caught between her teeth. Behind that was an infinitely complex brain firing off neurons at the speed of light. The image was fascinating to behold, like standing before a constant work of art and a genius in the making. “What are you thinking?”

“It is possible there may be a connection between this Gaspard Lallement and Lewis.” H.G. paused, touching her lips over further contemplation. Then she was moving. She grabbed the armor from Pete and held it up to the Farnsworth. “Artie, might you recognize this? If my years spent in a house full of old knick knacks are anything to go by I would say it is 15th century. Full steel plating, 1.6 centimeters thick, no significant markings… I couldn’t say what region, though.”

Pete threw in sarcastically, “Didn’t know the Middle Ages had electronically powered armor.”

“The armor is from the Renaissance period,” Artie indicated, “but the tech is most definitely recent. Can you see any buttons, switches, dials?”

“No…” H.G. inspected amid the wires, “…oh wait… I feel a silver knob here…”

“Okay, now don’t activate the –“

She flipped the switch.

What was a half rusted, 25 pound piece of chest armor turned into a _translucent_ piece of chest armor. Invisible, to be precise.

“What. Did. I. _SAY_?!”

H.G. managed a smile around the grimace. “Righty-ho, then,” she muttered.

“Congratulations, H.G.” Pete slapped the woman on the back. “You snagged your first artifact.”

“It’s invisible armor!” Myka gasped, reaching for it. Her hand smoothed over the invisible solid. It was cool to touch and just as tangible as it was mere seconds ago. “I’ve never seen anything like it. This is the kind of thing you read about in fairy tales.”

“Mm, the Harry Potter fans I have for students would agree.”

H.G. hummed to herself as her eyes glazed over the invention. Myka watched her examine it closely and, no doubt, marvel over its effects. There it was, that spark of creativity in H.G.’s eyes. The kind of fascination that would either get her in trouble or grant her vision renowned. The wheels were turning as this physicist worked out the various uses for invisible armor and how to perfect it. Myka smirked, knowing the artifact would become a pet project of H.G.’s in the near future.

“It could do with a few modifications,” H.G. surmised to herself, totally unaware she still had an audience. “Instead of plated armor maybe a lighter conductive metal and more fitted to the person like a … vest. Yes, that would work.”

The metallic petulance echoing from the Farnsworth broke up the curiosity fest. “Are we done _playing_ with the artifact?”

“This chest armor – this _artifact_ – has been in my father’s keeping for eight years. Lewis sought after it, but did not show up to claim it.”

“Maybe Frenchie got a hold of Lewis before he even arrived in England,” Pete said.

“Lewis has been evading Lallement since his release from prison two years ago. Why was he captured _now_? And how?”

“Lallement is worth 29 billion dollars,” explained Artie, “so you can understand the wealth of his connections. It’s possible Webb knew of the artifact’s effects. The armor is a crude form of invisibility cloak, one that would render its owner naked to the human eye. Power like this would have aided his escape from Lallement.”

“If the artifact was powerful it was worth money,” Myka jumped in. “Why wouldn’t he keep it with the rest of his treasures in France?”

H.G. thought about it. Ever since she contacted the FBI she had a gut feeling Lewis knew of her betrayal. They had grown distant their last year of marriage, much to H.G.’s encouragement, and Lewis was away on business more often than not. Her ex-husband may have been rich and pompous, but he knew how to protect his treasures – none of which were his own wife. “He would have wanted a backup plan,” she replied, “if he couldn’t get to his collection in France. By leaving it to Atlas House Lewis had something to fall back on.”

“So what now?” Pete asked, hands on his hips and in agent mode. “Lallement probably most definitely has Lewis Webb. And if he has our lawyer pal he also has any information on the location of the Rosetta Stone.”

Having hung back for the majority of the briefing, Steve stepped in with input of his own. “I have a friend at the Bureau who owes me a favor. We could tap him for information, anything the FBI has on Lallement.”

The bespectacled face of Arthur Nielsen blew to enlarged portions within the two-way communication screen. One thickly untamed brow rose in question. “Who are you?”

Myka stepped to the former FBI agent’s side. “He’s been very helpful on this case, Artie, and would be a valuable asset. He even saw through my Secret Service cover.” Myka shrugged to herself, still rather impressed with Steve’s intuition.

The old man slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I _told_ you that cover was for your protection! Don’t you people listen to me when I say this is dangerous work?”

“It’s not her fault,” Pete defended. “Jinksy gets vibes just like me.”

“Whatever!” Artie waved his hands around as if to air away the ripe smell of immaturity. “He knows, so he stays.” He leaned forward again so his grizzly bear-like terror could be seen up close. “Agent Jinks, you better be worth my time. And Myka? I’m trusting your instincts here.”

The professor rose on the balls of her feet, somewhat giddy considering their circumstances. Never had she been _this_ excited to please her superior. Then again, this wasn’t her usual faculty performance review before the department chairs. “You can count on me, sir.”

Artie nodded. “Now, as for Agent Jinks’ contact at the FBI… I would strongly suggest against it. No one can know about the true Rosetta Stone, especially the U.S. government. All they ever do is butt in where they’re not wanted and make more work for us in the long run.”

Steve frowned and then pointed between the three other agents and the talking box. “I thought you guys were the U.S. government.”

“Ehh, sort of. You have to understand, Agent Jinks, this case is bigger than you realize. The FBI doesn’t know half the intel I do. Just the wealth of information I picked up in my years in the former Soviet Union would make heads spin off.”

“You were…?”

Pete shook his head at Steve. “Long story, man. You’re gonna want to hold out for the extended edition.”

Myka asked, “So what is our next move, Artie?”

“Leena has been doing research on Lallement and tracking down his latest whereabouts. Leena…?”

The bed and breakfast owner and part-time Warehouse agent appeared in the Farnsworth window. “Hey guys. I’ve been pursuing some of Gaspard Lallement’s recent activities: he was recently a keynote speaker at the 30th annual French Finance Association Conference, was honored at a dedication ceremony in Munich for donating 13 paintings to the Academy of Fine Arts…”

“Do-gooder cover story,” Pete scoffed. “Sneaky.”

“… and attended several high-profile exhibitions in San Francisco, Tokyo, Johannesburg, and Madrid.”

“A sneaky globetrotter, at that,” H.G. observed.

“All evidence of activities seems to cease for the recent month. In addition to his villas in Italy and Spain, Lallement’s permanent residence is located in the south of France – a small castle in Avignon.”

“A small _castle_?” Pete practically choked.

“When you can afford several villas,” H.G. drawled, “why not a small castle? Rustic, spacious, makes an impression, not to mention it is the perfect example of living amongst a small piece of history.” She quirked a grin at the professor, knowing she would understand the sentiment. Myka took it as an entirely different meaning and turned away with red on her cheeks.

Pete squinted and threw up his hands. “Why doesn’t he just buy the Palace of Versailles?”

“Because it’s not for sale, dear boy,” H.G. quipped with a chuckle.

“If Lallement has been off the map for the past several weeks chances are it’s for good reason,” Artie said. “I want you all on a flight to Avignon first thing in the morning. If he has captured Webb then the stone may already be in his possession, or at the very least possess information on its true location.”

“And if Lewis or the stone are not in Lallement’s custody?” asked Myka.

“Improvise.”

“Will do,” Pete replied. “Kirk and company out.”

* * *

These moments of solitude were making a more frequent appearance.

H.G. was found alone in her room later that night. Their flight wasn’t until the next morning, so there was time to kill. Pete and Steve were still poring over the medieval artifact with boyish curiosity. Like Myka, H.G. had passed the sleepless hours with a mind towards further adventures on the European continent. The constant exploits had a way of transporting one across even greater distances, though, and produced a yearning for those left behind. When Myka heard the ballet music filtering through her hotel room wall, she knew H.G. was suffering from the great body of water between her and her daughter. H.G. was missing Christina and trying to ease the ache of detachment through the girl’s favorite melody.

Myka padded in with her stocking feet, flannel bottoms, and a faded Bryn Mawr sweatshirt. H.G. hadn’t changed since the morning, but didn’t seem to care about appearances – she always looked magnificent, Myka decided. At her visitor’s entrances, H.G. turned down the volume on her portable music player. Eyes were dark, sadder than usual, but the hands working the gadget were steady as if preparing to dismantle an explosive device.

“I thought it a foregone conclusion that H.G. Wells would be smug and celebrating – after snagging her first artifact and all.”

The smile was for Myka’s benefit only. “Assumptions are ghastly things. They are a temptation and a comfort which easily turns to barbs. You will find yourself in trouble one day, Dr. Bering.”

“Not before you.”

“Always two steps behind.”

Myka narrowed her eyes playfully, challenging. She entered the space between the two double beds and took a seat on the one opposite H.G. They were mirror images of one another, two very capable and seeking young women sitting on less than lavish beds. They both sought after what was attainable, yet were left to dream of what could not be had: that of their desire.

The music drifted from the speakers, the string section and the horns, and its pleasant radicalism. When composed in 1924 it was meant to be a revolt against convention. As the title (translated as “No Performance” or “Theatre Closed”) suggested, the ballet was a bon mot, a joke that valued nonsense and intuition. It was a shocking spectacle to an audience intent on tradition. It was both a masterpiece and a statement against conformity. The perfect balance of risk and adventure.

_Music that is the heart and soul of the Wells girls._

_“_ It is a composition of Erik Satie’s for the ballet _Relâche._ When Christina was just a baby, and when I hadn’t the fortitude to try anything else, part of this song always managed to lull her to asleep.” H.G. tipped her head fondly, letting the music fill her ears. “It was the only thing that would calm her cries. When I discovered this one night in the roasting heat of my Chicago apartment I never again went without a copy.”

“It’s beautiful,” Myka remarked, lips puckering to a half-smile.

H.G.’s voice dropped a decibel, foretelling the sadness to come. “I have never been apart from Christina this long. I worry if she’s alright.” She inhaled sharply, unexpectedly so that Myka flinched. H.G. sniffed up dry tears and looked away. Her words were ragged like the sandpaper touch of the bedspread. “I worry if _I_ am alright.”

“Didn’t you call her?” At H.G.’s nod Myka asked further, “What did she say?”

“That she was baking cookies with Leena. She also seems to have taken a liking to the piano. Artie has been teaching her scales.”

“Our boss, Artie?” Myka asked. “Hardly seems possible a grumpy man like him could be kid friendly.”

“Have you met my child?” H.G. with a cynical dip of her chin and rise of the brows. “She could befriend the Boogeyman if she puts her mind to it.”

Myka chuckled, the bed creaking beneath her.

“After recent events I wonder…”

“What?”

“I wonder if by leaving my family without an explanation or a phone number or address I took away my daughter’s only chance to know her relatives. If I have learned anything of these past eight years and my inevitable return home it is that time does heal some wounds. I hated my mother and father for so long and for so many things. I resented their attitude towards my education and my childish hopes and dreams even when they were just that: childish. I wanted them to be sorry I was never spoiled as equally as my brother. Above all, I could never understand why they gave me up so easily. I was estranged from my deceitful husband, pregnant, and without a home. It is in our desperation that we see who are friends truly are. Troubled times have a way of distinguishing the weak from the faithful. I did not expect my own family to be of the falsehearted kind.”

Myka reached over to squeeze a pale, cold hand in hers. The support and compassion the warmth of her grasp afforded encouraged H.G. to push on.

“But things are not as they once were,” H.G. said. A brightness strengthened her voice and her cheeks. She grinned softly. “I have a beautiful, intelligent yet headstrong young lady for a daughter. I am grateful for the dear friendship and daily joy a certain professor offers me. Even now it seems like I have more friends than I did 48 hours ago in my humble prison of Chicago. I am blessed by this life and the people in it. I have no need for parents when I already have family that takes care of me.” H.G. stopped to shrug her shoulders. Guilt painted her face as she confessed, “But that is me.”

“You wonder if Christina is as lucky,” gathered Myka. “Perhaps you even regret taking her away from her only living family.”

“It is a concern that has kept me awake many a night. In escaping my own prison it occurs to me that I have trapped my daughter. Did I take away a chance for Christina to grow up spoiled by loving grandparents? Was I selfish in the pursuit to punish my family for their betrayal? Should I have tried harder to repair the damage? These are but a few questions that threaten my slumber.”

“I’m so sorry, H.G. I didn’t know you were going through this.” Myka smoothed a thumb across the back of H.G.’s hand. She wished she had detected her friend’s misery sooner. H.G. had endured through an eight year burden and to come out on the other side just as encumbered. Myka deflated at her own incompetence. She was supposed to catch these things. She was a stickler for details and the deeper meaning. Why couldn’t she see below the surface of H.G.’s pride?

Myka swallowed the hard truth of her ineptness and focused on what she could do in the present. “You are a woman to be greatly admired,” she began softly, barely audible. Her eyes were cast down on their joined hands, away from H.G.’s widening eyes as if Myka were confessing the words to herself and no one else. “I honestly can’t conceive of how you raise a child all on your own and in a land so far from home. You have a job, an apartment, food and clothing. You created a home and a family – that is something to be proud of. And, I mean, it’s inspiring,” Myka admitted, wiping under her eye and exhaling over the pressure in her chest, “to someone like me. So don’t call yourself selfish. Don’t think of yourself as anything less than the amazing woman you are. It’s not fair to the rest of us who strive to be on your level.” Myka’s voice evened somewhat. More than that it hardened with her claim to the point where her tone almost became argumentative. “Christina doesn’t need to be spoiled by loving grandparents because she already has you for that. She has all the love in the world from her _mother_. That’s all she needs right now.”

H.G. swallowed, as Myka once did, the truth. But this was a different truth. It tugged at her heart like no spoken words could. I made her feel like a heroine in an epic novel, loved and revered. If it carried a burden it was one of living up to expectations. Myka’s truth, her proclamation, went down like the perfect cup of English tea. No one put her on a pedestal like Myka Bering, and not without proper cause.

“If the universe could do with only one friend,” H.G. turned to flip back her hair or hide the streak down her face, “it would surely be you.”

Myka shook her head, saying absolutely, “I don’t need the universe.”

_I only need you._

They shared a moment of silence, H.G. looking down and Myka looking straight ahead. Soon one would break the balance.

H.G. stood, her hand slipping from Myka’s, and strode a short distance to the dresser. Her hands lay atop the wood, brushing dust from its surface. She had forgotten how housekeeping in those parts neglected the furniture.

“Can I ask you something?” Myka’s question came from far away. “It may sound like crossing a line, but please don’t think I ask it lightly.”

“Do go on,” H.G. replied through the oval mirror above the dresser. The corner of her mouth turned up in its usual coy state. “You have stirred my curiosity.”

“When you told me your story that night in the park you spoke of Lewis and how you found him with that beaten man in your house. You were a witness to your husband’s horrifying actions. It frightened you – what he was capable of. I heard it in your voice when you recounted the memory.” Myka paused, chewed her lip, and carried on with a new breath. “Christina being eight-years-old must have been conceived well after that night because you never left him until the following year.”

“You’re asking how I could engage in sexual congress with a man of his nature, much less live with him.” H.G. surmised. “If it was consensual and I simply turned a blind eye to what happened behind closed doors or if he forced himself upon me.”

“You’ve thought about this a lot?”

“You thought I’d forget about Lewis just because he’s not here? He is always in my thoughts. He is everywhere Christina goes. Lewis is a constant nightmare and the component responsible for molding my daughter to life.”

Myka didn’t move on the bed. She didn’t breath or speak. It was a waiting game to see the ax fall because someone in that room was already hurting and Myka feared she’d be next. In her mind, when H.G. was in pain so was she. It was automatic, like a reflex – the need to protect, to empathize, to bleed as the other bled. She would never voluntary Tesla herself, of course, but if thousands of electrical volts coursed through her friend Myka would feel the shock of fear as well as the taught vibrations of H.G.’s life hanging by a thread. The bond they shared could neither be defined nor managed. It was a puzzle that could only be solved together.

H.G. could see the woman was waiting with baited breath, so she put her out of her misery.

“Who doesn’t believe once in their life that people can change? I thought I could force happiness, but, alas, you cannot make a silk purse from a sow’s ear. I could not make Lewis love me more than his treasure and I could not make myself forget the man in the chair. But I did manage to live with my poor choices. For months I walked through Webb manor like a ghost, lunched with friends on schedule and slept in the bed I had made for myself. It was a bed of lies and occupied by a man I did not care for, but it was the consequence of my failed intuition.”

Myka shot off the bed with a pair of fists at her side and blazing eyes that only saw red. “Why didn’t you fight back? Why did you just _take_ it?”

When H.G. turned from the mirror a gasp escaped her. Myka was right there, present as always but so close H.G. almost ran her over. She took an absent step back, hitting the dresser with nowhere else to go. There was no more running. “How on earth could I? I had no place to hide.”

“He made you stay.”

“He did no such thing.”

“He made it impossible for you to be your own person, to be independent from what was expected. He hated your work. He hated you for being better than him.”

“Myka…”

“He made you feel sorry that you were a brilliant writer and not the trophy wife he took you for. I mean, my god, H.G., he criticized your writing – called it ‘ _folly,’_ ” she scoffed in disgust, the corkscrews of her hair swinging to and fro, “and threatened to burn it! He had the gall to give you literary advice!”

“Alright!” H.G. cried. Her eyes slammed shut and her hands went to her throbbing temples to keep the eruption of memory at bay. “Bloody hell, alright!” Her scream sent Myka back a few steps as if she was physically battered by the tone alone. H.G. inhaled sharply through her nose and let it out slowly. When she felt the heat drawing from her face she opened her eyes. “I was a coward. You have proven that quite sufficiently. But that does not give you the right to lecture me about my mistakes. I have not been the most trustworthy friend, but I mean it when I say to you, Myka, that I have never spun a lie since that night in the park. I told you everything I could, everything I could possibly give up without shriveling up to ashes.”

Her hands shook. Her chest heaved back sobs. H.G. had spent so long perfecting a defense against the very thing Myka’s justifications were wrenching out. She was right, of course. Lewis _was_ a monster, but that creature had been buried so far into the recesses of her mind that its reappearance shocked her into a state.

“You can talk about it,” Myka assured tentatively. Her eyes were soft as ever just as the smile that was offered. “You can scream and yell, too, if you want. I’ll listen. But you can’t keep it inside. That past is ugly and black and it will taint you from the inside out if held on to long enough.” She drew nearer, not a care for the anger still fueling the cheeks of the woman before her. “I don’t want that for you. _Please_ ,” she begged lowly, breath catching, “ _please_ don’t shrivel to ashes because I will notice and I might not be able to survive it.”

_Myka would notice._

It was a strange thing to say. To experience pain was one thing but to witness it must be another. That it was possible to see it as it passed by and acknowledge it never occurred to H.G. And of the billions of billions that peopled the planet that the only person she cared about would notice… What a gratifying experience. To be seen not only for your appearance but for your faults – ill hidden as they were… It felt grand. It actually caused H.G. to breathe easier. Never before was it possible to bounce back this quickly from facing her past. This was new territory. This was an unwritten page in her life story, god grant it became an epic novel. The title? Unknown. The ending? Unforeseeable. Then again, H.G. Wells was a writer and a brilliant one at that. She knew the laws of physics and could see how things worked without touching them. Through verse, action, and sheer instinct H.G. would scribe the rest.

Two women were once alone in a hotel room, one in ratty loungewear and the other with more elegant attire of a blouse and trousers. One had their hands buried in their shirt pocket, fingering a prized treasure while the other’s sleeves were rolled to the elbows as if some fiddling project was in order. Both felt the need to close what little space remained between them, but neither had the courage to initiate what could not be taken back. Because once that step was taken it could never be forgotten or waved off devoid of explanation. It was the point of no return.

Motions were small, if not calculated, yet they were made from two like minds. Time counted down like minutes, not like the seconds it took to turn up one’s head as the other dipped to meet it. They took what seconds they had slowly, hesitantly. They didn’t want to destroy the delicate balance of friendship they had come to create. In the span of 15 seconds Myka was mesmerized and H.G. utterly breathless.

“Helena,” sighed Myka, eyes closed and lips parted. She did not meet her mouth with the other woman’s, but couldn’t bear distancing herself from it any further. Her temple rested against H.G.’s as she brought their cheeks together.

H.G. exhaled through her mouth. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that. My true name, on your lips. Myka… it is as though that is all I’ve ever wanted.” She nuzzled against Myka, their noses brushing, inhaling each other.

Ever since meeting Myka she had wanted to grant the freedom to speak her given name. For months it had always been Emily. The way it sounded in the professor’s mouth was friendly, endearing, and a touch exasperated when the occasion called for it (which was quite often). Yet however it came to her ears it would never be hers to take. Emily Lake was a construction whose only purpose was to fool. H.G. kept up appearances for a long time, and when Myka came along she had to forcibly hold herself back to reinforce the habit, to keep her real name from tumbling out. She wanted her friend to see the real H.G., the mother, the cowardly and abandoned ex-wife of a convict. All the good, all the bad. She wanted to lay bare before Myka as she was, without lies or walls or fake names.

With the evidence on Myka’s lips, H.G. could finally rest easy. Myka had figured her out. She had peeled back the layers of Emily Lake to shine a light on the woman waiting beneath.

H.G. stretched out her hand and swept it deep in the brunette curls that were the target of much adoration since their arrival. The pads of her fingers dragged along Myka’s scalp, eliciting a shiver and sigh that delighted H.G. to no end.

The familiar scent of H.G. filled the professor’s nostrils. It came in aroma of bergamot, lavender, and the yellowed pages of a book. There were other smells, smells she didn’t recognize that could have originated from Atlas House (marmalade? paraffin?). Myka’s skin tingled with the heat of the woman’s proximity. She felt bathed in fingers sliding on the skin of her skull, and the sensation took the air from her lungs in one soft whimper. Her eyes slipped shut as she felt a momentary feeling of arousal. It curled deep inside, making itself welcome without permission. It rose in intensity with a mind to color her cheeks and increase her breath sounds.

_Why haven’t I felt this before?_

_Because she has never touched me like this._

What came as swiftly admitted titillation quickly turned to anxiety. This was not her. This couldn’t be the person she was. Myka was a breath away from kissing the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen and she’d do it in her stockings and a worn alumni sweatshirt. Was this the romance read in epic tales and seen in Hollywood films? No, it wasn’t. It was life – Myka’s life. It was the professor in her loungewear, and the beautiful woman she’d ever seen – her best friend.

Myka was frozen by indecision.

Was this a result of what everyone had convinced her of? Had she been experiencing some form of projection? Everyone from Claudia to Pete had told her that H.G. was this great love of hers. They had been telling her how she felt and how to proceed with her own life. And if there is anything Myka despised it was people telling her what to do. She wanted to be in control, giving orders and counter orders. It just made sense that she and she alone implemented color codes to the targets and exits.

But in that moment when Myka’s lips were a hair’s breadth from H.G.’s she felt anything but in control. Could she go on like this? Could she relinquish control and let someone else take the lead? More importantly, could that person be H.G.? Myka’s body and her reactions to the one pressing into it was not her own, but she couldn’t help wondering if this is who she wanted to be all along. What else was she to think when her heart was aflutter and her incorporeal existence was seconds from becoming a puddle on the floor?

H.G.’s hands dragged over the woman’s shoulders and down her arms. A hand was carefully extricated from a pocket. In its isolation, Myka’s fingers were warm and brought such comfort to the pale, seeking one of H.G.’s. It was by joint effort that their fingers weaved together, a bond about as strong as the amity they shared. H.G. seized her bottom lip between her teeth, daunted by the pains being taken. If the contact was broken so would their carefully fortified friendship. There was no telling what would become of H.G., so hopeful and foolish as she stood there hand-in-hand with her heart’s and mind’s desire. There was no telling how fast the brunette would retreat out the door if one wrong move was made or some tactless syllable uttered. Every precaution was regarded to handle Myka as if she were made of fine china. All patience was obtained and heeded to balance the two extremes – one of idealistic love and the other of erotic love.

Nose to nose and breathing the inches between them, H.G. made one last correction before commencing forward. Myka’s hand came willingly from her sweatshirt pocket, but soon the movement roused her wits, and, realizing what was still in her firm clasp she withdrew in one long stride. The warmth abated, all fluttering of hearts came close to a halt.

Myka’s eyes widened at the golden, square locket in her palm. The chain, constantly handled to provide the comfort it afforded, was interlaced between her fingers. Before she could conceal it H.G. gave a small gasp.

“It’s not what you think.” Myka cleared her throat, perplexed by the husky tenor it shaped. “I would never steal it. I know it means a great deal to you.”

Before they departed South Dakota Christina had pulled the woman aside to beg for forgiveness of her rude actions and also to entrust something precious to Myka. The locket was an antique yet its luster and sliding hinge evidenced the care it received over the years. Though a treasured keepsake, H.G. had a tendency to misplace her belongings (a trait which her daughter inherited). Christina found it lying around so often that she began to hold onto it for sporadic periods of time. What contained the smiling profile of a dark haired little girl was joined by the photo of her mother, crafty likeness, wispy silk locks, and all. And so over the years the Wells girls came to an unspoken pact to share the locket; nurtured in the hands of Christina when her mother was mentally absent and H.G. when her daughter decided to give it back.

Myka thought it a touching story from the very beginning, but felt a moment’s hesitation when tasked with the responsibility to preserve the locket. It didn’t feel right to take such a personal family keepsake if only for a little while. Such a duty was flattering, but carried the heavy weight of accountability if it were lost or misplaced as it was so often in the Wells’ hands. Christina insisted with her put-upon, puppy eyes and idle threats about eating all the cookies before they returned. It was enough for Myka to consent. She left with a promise to guard the locket with her life and ever since then had felt the metal heat to her hand’s ministrations whenever she felt lonely or misplaced in the world herself.

H.G.’s stare was glued to the locket, but she still wouldn’t take it even though Myka was clearly offering to return it. Several memories flashed before her eyes, all of which were of Myka fingering the inside of her pocket at different intervals since leaving Univille. The professor obviously had a private affinity for something so small as to fit in her pocket, but the identity of the possession remained a mystery. Until now.

“I meant to give it back,” Myka babbled on, eyes fluttering nervously. Her muscles seized at the thought that her betrayal upset H.G. To keep a precious thing from your best friend… it was about as criminal as a lying about your true identity. “I really did,” she squeaked out.

“Myka…”

“It didn’t feel right wearing it.” Myka went to touch her neck as if some weight hung about it, but there was only skin and that somehow disappointed. “But I couldn’t just leave it anywhere. I wanted to keep it close by. I wanted to protect it without disgracing its power.”

“Power?”

“Well, I mean,” Myka’s lips fumbled over her lazy tongue because the way H.G. was staring at her with that sanctimonious expression did undefinable things to her body, “it’s special to you and Christina. It absorbs all the love you two feel for each other.”

“It sounds as if this warehouse business has gone straight to your head, darling,” H.G. quipped, mouth fighting the urge to break into a wide grin. “All this talk of supernatural absorption of emotion sounds a bit like you believe my locket is an artifact.”

“You never know.” Myka shrugged at her own idiocy.

“Regardless, it is not getting doused in purple sludge. I will succumb to whatever downside just as long as it remains as powerful as you claim.”

_She must think I felt all that love from the locket._

_Well, you kind of did, Bering._

“I feel I should be flattered by your persistence to keep my locket in such close quarters.” H.G.’s eyes dragged leisurely down the professor’s body to the pockets of a sweatshirt. “You would have to be smitten by its contents to do so.”

A stuttering reply was managed. “Y-yours is not the only photo in it.” And as H.G.’s brose rose higher Myka wished herself dead at realizing the confession, however unintentional it was. While it was true the face of the author occupied much of her devotion, H.G. didn’t need to know that. The woman already had enough ammunition to tease her, the last thing she needed was a nuclear missile of Myka’s adoration.

_She probably thinks I’m obsessed with her._

_Damn it._

H.G. chuckled at the way the professor jerked her head back and winced (what could be interpreted as her own internal reprimand). The display was quite amusing. In the months they had known each other Myka’s idiosyncrasies and timid charm were a delightful reprieve from the friends made or otherwise brief lovers taken by H.G. during her confinement in Chicago. It was a welcome gift that Myka’s shy, quirky actions were a response to this newly instated flirtation. H.G. found herself as breathless then as she was when they were touching. It would seem that Myka was not the only smitten party in the room.

_Oh, Myka._

_What have you done to me?_

Two women were once alone in a hotel room, one in shabby nightwear and the other improving a work-worn blouse and trousers. The evening would be remembered by both as an evening of balance.

The event stood as one where lips almost met and boundaries very nearly broken, yet their dear friendship was as judiciously protected as a treasured locket. They parted the night as friends and as two women who craved _more_. One left to her own room, assured that this indeed was who she wanted to be and that the woman next door wished to pursue greater than vestal feelings for this Myka Bering. The other sat, humming to _Relâche_ and thankful she hadn’t fumbled glass, delicate, timid, and stunning in its unique representation.

What was mistaken to be the point of no return was actually a new beginning. Whether the path would be ventured…. Only time would tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although Jacques-François Menou is a historical figure and had indeed taken the Stone into his personal possession upon its discovery, his “relative” Gaspard Lallement is not. Lallement is a fictional character of my own making.


	10. Chapter 10

Leaving England was much easier than H.G. thought. When she left the first time her homeland always stayed with her like a shadow, the sights and sounds dwelling in her memory. Fond times were had and she missed them like no other. Then she settled in America, raised her daughter, met and made a wonderful friend, and the memory of England shrunk to miniscule size.

But England and its memories would never leave her, not until her demons were put to rest. Seeing her parents again, arguing with them, talking with them, hugging and nodding goodbye to them… everything from the demons to the memories were now cast from her mind. No shadows lingered and few remembrances of a failed love affair stuck to her like gum on her shoe. H.G. could finally leave England with squared shoulders that bore no weight. She knew now it was not her home being left behind but her past. Home was with Christina. Home was Myka.

But presently they were fixed in Avignon, France and lightly perspiring to the subtropical climate. The sun beat down on them with such a vengeance they had to shield their eyes from the rays. What they could see under the cover of their palms was a quaint village with its umbrella-like stone pines and red roofed villas. Only five miles away lay some of the grandest tourist attractions along with a dozen small, unique museums. A northwest breeze carried the scent of gothic cathedrals, frankincense, and history. Just the antiquity of it filled the nostrils and invigorated the senses. It was the perfect getaway, at least for those with a reverence for restored churches.

“That officer had no right to detain us for that long!” Pete griped after they exited Caumont Airport. “The fact that we had to declare that Middle Age piece of crap…”

Myka slipped on her sunglasses and folded her arms, allowing their resident globetrotter to call a taxi. “Just an hour ago you were ranting about how cool it was,” she said.

“And how awesome your ‘guns’ would look with it on,” added Steve.

“Ganging up on the senior agent, now? Alright, have it your way. But remember who has the Tesla when you’re in a jam.” Pete raised his brow pointedly, hands on his hips.

“Allons-y!” cried H.G. waving from the taxi van she hailed.

They all piled in, taking places without argument. Myka and Pete shared the middle seats while H.G. and Steve took the back. The taxi driver, about mid-thirties, salt and pepper hair, and smelling of old cologne adjusted his newsboy cap and turned to his fare. To him, the foursome looked like one short of a Rat Pack.

“Where to?”

“McDonalds!” Bound up with enthusiasm, Pete gripped the back of the driver’s seat giving the poor Frenchman a fright. “Or is it Le McDonalds? McDonalds-y? Whatever. Just drop us off at the nearest fast food joint, pour favor… senior.” Pete nods and gives a drum of hands to the front headrest, satisfied by what he considered passable communication between him and an English-speaking Frenchman.

“You know,” Myka considered seriously, “I think there’s a psychiatric hospital around here. Isn’t that right, monsieur?”

The taxi driver nodded happily. “Correct, ma chérie. Would you like to drop the monsieur off?”

“Oh, I would love to…” Myka dodged the slap from next to her before elbowing the solid body, “… but I’m afraid there’s no time for that.”

She then gave him very specific directions on where they would like to stop and which routes were best. The driver didn’t have patience when one of his fares told him how to do his job. Shaking his head idly he waved a hand at the woman’s strict instructions and spoke a line of French that successfully returned her back to her seat. Pete met the Frenchman’s gaze in the rearview mirror mouthing, ‘Now you know my pain.’

Myka’s shoulder bumped sharply into Pete’s as the van abruptly sped off. Before they got far their Farnsworth buzzed.

“Old fashioned ringtone,” Pete elaborated to the driver who was sporting a frown.

From the swivel chair in his office, Artie jumped right into the essentials. “There are a few things you all should know before apprehending Lallement. While we don’t know what will occur when the two halves of the stone are reunited, there is plenty of evidence to suggest either stone’s ability to absorb and grant powers of language. Leena and I have been working effortlessly to track down all supernatural disturbances of this kind and merge them with my own research done over the years. Leena?”

The young woman slid into view on her own swivel chair and addressed the four agents and a thoroughly confused taxi driver. “In 1830 a Manchu fisherman living in what is modern day Liaoning, China was known to speak a variety of Middle Eastern dialects. You can see how a peasant speaking Old Nubian in the 19th century might attract a fair bit of attention.”

Artie’s head popped into view. “In 1945 a nine-month-old Canadian girl’s first spoken words are Japanese.”

“A young Turkish Private,” Leena read on, “with no formal education has fluent knowledge of the extinct language of Meroitic in 1974.”

“1989, France,” Artie threw in faster, “a Rabbi conducts his whole sermon in Mishnaic Hebrew.”

“And a quadriplegic artist who’s never left Hungary uses visual language to paint works referencing Portuguese in 2002.”

Leena and Artie held the files in their hands for a moment before silently looking up to the Farnsworth. Crickets could be heard within the cologne permeated taxi. After hearing the rundown of artifact disturbances by subject, year, and region the four agents could only react with blank expressions and blinking eyes. Eventually, the newest edition to the Rat Pack is the one that broke the stillness.

“Is that all?” Steve asked from behind Myka, quite unimpressed.

“Those were just the highlights,” Artie replied. “You want to hear the long version?”

Pete spoke up quickly. “We’d rather not, boss.”

“It is paramount that you not underestimate the effects of either stone. Touching its surface without gloves would result in a catastrophic downside.”

“What downside, Artie?” Myka asked, frowning at the severity of her boss’ warning.

“Certain dialects have the power to cause harm or control the physical body and mind…”

Steve nearly laughed. “Like witchcraft?”

“A witch in 16th century France cursed her entire village to death and you think this is a joke?”

Mutely, Pete, Myka, H.G., and the taxi driver raised a brow at the ex-FBI agent.

“Um… sorry. No.”

“Don’t underestimate the witches, Jinksy.” Pete patted Steve’s shoulder in brotherly affection. “They always have a score to settle. You see _Black Sunday_?”

Myka’s neck extended to her exasperation. “ _Peeete_.”

“I’m making a connection to the case!”

H.G. shook her head, rolling her eyes. Since hearing of Pete’s affinity for classic films, she played along with and humored him. Yet after the 100th or so movie reference she would admit to the obsession being a tad grating on her patience. Just how one filled their hours with endless marathons and still possessed skin that has felt the sunlight of day was beyond her. “You need a girlfriend,” H.G. commented with pity in her eyes.

“You volunteering?”

Pete knew he’d get the elbow before it was even dealt it. Bracing his ribs couldn’t even stem the warning from H.G.’s overprotective and overreacting ‘friend.’

“Are you alright Agent Lattimer?”

Through watery eyes Pete glanced at Myka before smiling gingerly over to the concerned Englishwoman. “Bad tacos.”

“I didn’t think our in-flight meal included tacos.”

“I must have cleaned them out,” Pete grasped out of thin air. “With my stomach you never know what’s going to be left over.”

H.G. cast a suspicious look from Pete to a rather content Myka and back to the doubled over agent. “I see.” And indeed she saw.

“If we can get back to business before the next millennium.”

The four agents were drawn back to the Farnsworth and the glowering man staring over his spectacles.

“So in all these cases,” Myka deduced and rattled off from memory, “the Manchu fisherman, the child, the Private, the Rabbi, the artist… they all touched the Rosetta Stone.”

“Correct,” Artie nodded. “And there’s no way of explaining how it passed from one to the other. After years of research I have yet to uncover a pattern. The factors are unknowable, which explains why the stone has evaded public eye.”

Artie paused to wet his lips and fiddle his fingers. “I – I cannot ask you Myka and you H.G. to go any further in this case…”

Myka glanced over at H.G. who shared her same budding disquiet.

“You have both lived up to our agreement and have lent your unique talents and knowledge to getting us to this point. I thank you for that. But for you two to go any further… I can’t let either of you fall into danger. Your safety is my responsibility.” Artie gave a quick nod, swallowing thickly, and made a grand effort to direct his attention away from the Farnsworth.

H.G. took a minute to give it serious consideration. For her, this was personal. Lewis and this Lallement were the reasons she and Christina had been in hiding for eight years. She lived in fear, not knowing where her ex-husband was or if his cheated benefactor still hunted her. For years she huddled in secret like a scared little bird. H.G. supremely hated vulnerability and the minute her feet left Chicago she swore to never again feel those effects. Now, H.G. could do something about it. She could get back at the people responsible for those eight years of solitude and being in service to fear. Vengeance could finally ensue if not for the purpose of her own protection then for her daughter’s as well.

Myka weighed her options, too. For her it was a matter of protecting those she cared about: H.G., Christina, and maybe even Pete. Also important was upholding principles. She had a moral duty to stop Lallement and a work duty (even though she was not really a Warehouse agent) to complete the mission of returning the stone to the Warehouse. Over the years Myka never really had a job she was fond of or worked at with some measure of motivation. She never had a superior who had her best interests at heart or who cared about her wellbeing. But since that curtain drew back to reveal limitless wonder, since the impossible could be seen with her own eyes… Myka knew her decision before the request was ever put before her in a manner of mumbled, floundering authority. She was meant to be there, at the Warehouse, in the field, with Pete, Artie, even Steve. And always, always by the very side of H.G. Wells.

“… Pete and Steve are fully trained field agents,” Artie babbled on, hands patting at his sweater constantly. “To call civilians to venture into unknown danger would be… well, it would be wrong. But sending four agents to apprehend Lallement would be ideal, yes. And I have a gut feeling neither of you two would take no for an answer. H.G., there is nothing that could stop me from you diving head first without a parachute but you would do it just to test me and you’d float gracefully to the ground with some hidden gravity mechanism. You’re extremely gifted and a pain in my backside. Myka, I don’t know what to say. You always have the answers and you’re not shy when giving them. When you’re rambling about your work you’re oblivious of those around you, but what you say has meaning.” A loud crackle came through the device as Artie cleared his throat. His eyes flickered between the screen and his desk as if apprehension had gotten the best of him. “And… well, I guess what I mean to say –“

“Artie.” Myka paused so her voice could gain strength. “Stop talking, please. I am following this mission through till the end.”

“I as well,” H.G. said. “I would hate for your arse to go trouble-free.”

“Oh,” Artie breathed before sagging into his chair and the patting hand of Leena. “Oh, that’s… that’s good to hear.”

H.G. and Myka smiled back.

“Don’t worry, Artie.” Pete spoke with a gravity that could have helped Atlas shoulder the Earth. “I’ll make it my mission to protect these ladies.”

Myka had to blink a few times to let the fact sink in that this Pete Lattimer whom she just met 48 hours ago was making her’s and H.G.’s safety his priority. God, was he annoying and unprofessional to the point of incompetence, but she was becoming quite fond of him. More than that, she trusted him and that Tesla of his. Myka felt the hot track run down her cheek and she let it for a moment before quickly erasing its existence.

“Me too,” Steve spoke up. “I think my training and instincts will be a good addition to this team. I want to lend a hand.”

Artie made an intense study that made the ex-agent feel about as small as a cockroach. The wheels of the Warehouse custodian’s mind turned before he answered, “I will allow it.”

H.G. offered their new partner a heartening smile while Pete threw a high five.

“Alright, alright,” grumbled Artie. “Don’t you people have an artifact to snag?”

“We love you to, cuddly, wuddly bear.”

The boss simply glared at Pete with the heat of a thousand suns before the Farnsworth went black.

Minutes later their taxi arrived at their destination, and the four Warehouse agents piled out. After Pete paid their driver he skipped off to give the newbie, ex-FBI agent a rite of passage noogie.

“Américains,” the taxi driver grunted, shaking his head in disdain.

This earned a humph from H.G. who in her thick English accent sputtered a defense. “I will have you know…” She added a stern finger.

But Myka was already hauling H.G. out of the van before she could get her dig in. The Frenchman simply gave a sanctimonious tip of his hat and screeched off. Amid the exhaust fumes, H.G. stomped her boot, swearing to the fading taxi that, “It’s chaps like you that give the French a bad name!”

* * *

Stealing past the gated entry, the team walked the gravel pathway for close to a mile before coming to a halt. There as a centerpiece to its surrounding gardens and structured landscaping stood a small chateau unlike any seen by a Warehouse agent, an ex-FBI agent, a professor, or a physicist.

Gaspar Lallement’s manor house was the strictest example of country living. It was not magnificent in the royal sense, nor was it extravagant. For a man with deep pockets and limitless free time a few villas in Europe simply would not suffice. There was only so much _extravagance_ an impresario could bide his or her time with. Comfort was a universal need amongst the rich and the poor. The difference is style. A man like Lallement _never_ spared expense on style.

Its grey-brown stone dated to 16th century and covered every nook and cranny, sealing the interior in a cozy dungeon of luxury. Ivy crept up the foundation of the walls and curled like a cancer around the windows and ledges. The gardens were lush and at that perfect peak just before the sweep of an early winter air. Landscapes were well kept, the gravel driveway crunching underfoot and lawn freshly clipped. A greenhouse nurtured the likes of fruits and vegetables. Though partially fortified with a rolling ditch off its northeast side, there was no moat or drawbridge (to Pete’s dismay).

It was exactly as H.G. had predicted: rustic, spacious, and charmingly archaic. From the chateau’s gapping audience it was no wonder such architecture continued to enthrall the modern man.

Myka took the lead and laid it out for her team.

“We have to assume Lallement has one of the stones,” she said as they all gathered in a circle, as if it were natural, a result of working dozens of missions together. “I may not be a government agent or a spy, but I know it’s good to be prepared for the worst possible situation. Lallement is bent on finding this artifact. It is a dangerous obsession and I have a feeling he will do anything to get his hands on it. He will thwart us at every turn and harm any innocent who stands in his way. Without the stone he is an unstable opportunist. _With_ the stone he is a dangerous opponent.”

Pete really, _really_ couldn’t help it. “What is he going to do, talk us to death in a foreign language?”

“Did you just blackout during Artie’s lecture back there?” Myka shot back, squinting. “We have to prepare ourselves for a downside. Certain dialects have the power to cause harm…” she recited word-for-word.

Steve gave a half-shrug and facilitated. “And witches always have a score to settle.”

H.G. cocked her head. “I highly doubt there are witches dwelling at this juncture.” Though she proceeded to make an additional sweep of the architecture to rule out any symbols or iconography that were out of the ordinary. Just to be sure.

The team nodded to their plan and proceeded ahead. They overlooked Pete’s sportsmanlike “hands in… and go Team Warehouse!”

The professor hung back, eyes painting over the manor’s stone face, drawn to its repose like an unbreakable habit. She stayed, breathing for a moment and thinking of a life within a small piece of history.

_Midnight walks in the garden…_

_The laughing and sneezing of flour in the kitchen…_

_Small feet padding across the parquetry…_

“Are you alright?”

_A restored Tudor bedchamber… bedposts and canopy…_

_Soft kisses…_

“Myka?”

She jumped as if doused by cold water. Myka blinked and shook her head. H.G. was there, coming closer but no more than the professor had imagined. “What?”

“You look in a daze,” H.G. put gently. Her eyes searched Myka’s. Worry lines emphasized her suspicion. “Do you feel alright?”

The ‘almost kiss’ replayed over and over in Myka’s mind. She fantasized of it, too. Missed opportunities bled into her subconscious, playing house in her dreams. It made her stomach do flip flops – or so she would imagine. The dreams were never remembered in fine detail. One thing that remained as Myka woke up was a light heart. Unburdened and optimistic, it was a measurable difference from how she went out before sleep. But the form and lines of a vision quickly dissipated, leaving the dreamer to blink herself into reality and experience this novel feeling of great loss. It always lasted a matter of seconds, that smile which greeted the sunrise and that god damn, “It’s great to be alive” feeling.

A pale, fragile hand stretched out, perchance to check the professor’s temperature. Myka eased back slightly with a chuckle. “I’m fine.” She scratched her wrinkled forehead and diverted her gaze. “Really. It’s nothing. Don’t worry about me.”

“That is one mandate I cannot seem to follow.” H.G. tipped her head, almost shyly, and a grin slipped through. “ _Is_ it nothing?” she asked then, earnestly.

“You would be the first to know.”

In that moment, H.G. was blessed to have this woman’s friendship. A lifetime, it felt, was spent spinning lies no one cared to see through before a brave soul stepped forward offering her hand in companionship. It felt like faith and longing. Myka peeled back her layers, and H.G. her’s. They shocked each assumption, cried for the other, and discovered together. H.G. could surround herself in this woman’s words and feel as secure within them as a dame in a castle keep.

Myka smiled and H.G. beamed in its grandeur. All it took was this nonverbal sign of understanding to grasp the life threatening situation that followed. It was their last opportunity to exchange something meaningful in the privacy of a late spring air. H.G. already made her one last call to Christina after disembarking the plane. She sent her love (and Myka’s), knowing it might be the last time they spoke. A similar occasion struck Myka, realizing it was as good a time as any to make her possibly last farewells. Fragile relationships may endure, but she would not go out a coward of her own reservations. All it took was a simple, ‘Hi, Dad’ into the phone to clear her conscience.

Bathed in silence, the professor and the scientist, friends and so much more, cherished the source of what made their hearts beat. A broad range of meaningful expressions and confessions could be chosen. For Myka and H.G. it was a smile and a trembling of hands.

Up close, Lallement’s manor expressed similar historical renovation, but with a finer detail. Everything from the balconies to the columns and the French doors to the ironwork hailed from 16th century with only subtle references to its years of maintenance and renewal. In fact, the only piece of modern décor was an entry lock above the ornate door handle. The fact that there were no armed guards made the team nervous. A security lock system, simple and straightforward, did not ease their concern.

Pete inspected the keypad up close and shook his head. “State of the art security system. Why am I not surprised?”

“Allow me,” drawled H.G. who glided past the puzzled agents. She knelt before the lock system, her cocked head blocking her audience’s visual.

Steve cast a questioning look at the other two who simply shrugged like they were used to it. Since they set out on this mission, Pete and Myka felt taken for a ride at the range of talents of this Englishwoman. Yet looks could be deceiving. This was no ordinary physicist and part-time writer. This was an H.G. Wells with a head full of ideas both innocent and volatile, having a penchant for keeping even the sharpest minds on their toes. It seemed improbable that they could be surprised even after beating Myka at five straight games of chess, sweated out a difficult suspect during hotel rounds, rattled off a dozen of her favorite _Star Wars_ books to a giddy Pete, and snagged an artifact from her own childhood home. There was much about H.G. that boggled the mind, but, thankfully, she was still the woman Myka had come to befriend and care for. Yet as the professor worried at her lip and scrutinized the back of a genius’ head, she was curious to know how H.G. adopted the skill of breaking and entering.  

“Pen,” she ordered.

Pete snapped out of it and procured a pen from his pocket, laying it carefully into the eager hand flapping before him.

“Thank you, darling.”

There were a few clicks, probably the pen attacking the integrity of Lallement’s entry lock. Quite offended by something in the circuitry, there was a shake of the head followed by a series of incoherent mutterings. Myka broke into smile. She was completely taken with the mumbles and tinkering of an oblivious scientist.

_She’s so adorable._

_Can I keep her?_

“Ha! Like cracking an egg!” H.G. rose and returned Pete’s pen. “Though not as messy.”

“Remind me to never piss you off,” Pete said, wide-eyed. “I’ve got valuable stuff in my room.”

“Righty-ho.” H.G. threw up her hands happily and they clapped to her sides. “Are we all arranged to storm the castle?” she quipped, a wide smile on her face and sparkle of adventure in her eyes. She winked at Myka, bringing a redder hue to the professor’s cheeks.

The team split up to cover more ground. They agreed upon a strict ‘No touchy’ rule as they searched among some very old, shifty looking objects. After sweeping the ground floor, Pete and Steve came upon a door under the grand staircase.

After opening the creaking door Pete’s shoulders sagged. “Why is it always the creepy basement?”

Steve gazed over his shoulder. Shelves and barrels outlined the darkness. “More like creepy cellar.”

Pete turned around with a sour look on his face. “Not helping.”

“Oh! A cellar! How I love a good cellar!”

H.G. joined the two, a weary Myka on her heels. Biting her lip H.G. rose up on her toes to get a better look at the dark stairway. “Are we going to investigate that?” she asked hopefully.

“You are enjoying this far too much,” Myka mumbled. She had just searched the entire upper level of the manor, dragged by the hand of one adventurous H.G. Wells. Her enthusiasm knew no bounds in the four walls of a small castle that was packed with artifacts, supernatural or otherwise. They had already come across a collection of 17th century witch bottles, a priceless Francisco de Goya, sacred bones of Manchu Pichhu, and (to Myka’s delight and H.G.’s disgust) a rotting mummy that was safely encased behind glass. “That’s the Goucher mummy!” the professor cried, finger jabbing at the glass earnestly. “But I thought that was on loan to the John Hopkins Archaeological Museum.” In her confusion, H.G. led her away with the discomforting words of “Apparently, money _does_ buy everything.”

With that one exception, it was the professor who had to keep the other in line. H.G.’s fascinations may be particular, but they were not limited to the scientific. She had a healthy obsession with rare books, silver tea sets, and (thanks to her father’s favorite past time) the occasional croquet equipment. Since they had become friends H.G. never once made fun of Myka’s historical disparagements and commendations. She delighted in the look of wonder on that expressive face. Myka returned the favor, exercising patience during the scientist’s rants on NASA funding and giving her space when her research demanded it. Though presently, considering they were breaking and entering without a warrant or sound credentials Myka had to reign in both H.G.’s curiosity and her grabby hands. It was no easy feat.

Stumbling in the dark of the basement (cellar), the team finally switched on their flashlights. Like a subterranean vault, the place was immense. The room at the base of the stairway was a cool 55 degrees and damp, the perfect conditions for storing wine, “or averting suspicion” Steve suggested wisely. Once they passed the walls shelved with barrels they entered a passageway. The air became staler, drier. The tunnel opened to a gallery room and a sight to behold.

“Oh my god,” gasped Myka.

“Bloody hell.”

“It’s Artie Heaven,” Pete muttered.

The room was aglow by the dim lights overhead, but what really shined was the plethora of gold, silver, and diamond objects. Gilded pieces were stacked to the ceiling, gem studded crowns and goblets pooled around a Moroccan throne chair, several chests spilled over with pearls, gold coins, and precious stones. There were also some not-so-gleaming artifacts in the form of rusted armor and bronze weapons, clay pots, a life-size Terracotta horse, urns, vases, caskets, paintings, murals, stacks of books, rolls of parchment…

Nothing looked tagged or labeled. There was no rhyme or reason for each object’s location. It was as if all those priceless objects were thrown together in one heap. It made Warehouse 13 look like a spread out of _Martha Stewart Living_.

Steve eyes glazed over. “It’s a treasure room.”

“This must be where Lallement keeps all his black market pieces.”

“It’s kind of small,” Pete scoffed to Myka who developed a crease between her brows, “but I’m sure there’s another one.”

“This way.” H.G. already found the next treasure room and was making a bee line for it. Never mind backup.

Already aware of her friend’s carelessness in thrilling moments such as this, Myka sprinted after her. They got a few feet into the passageway when they heard an echo of voices. Grabbing H.G. by the arm, Myka pulled her back from entering the next treasure room. Breathing deeply, the two partners flattened their backs to the walls to limit any sign of their presence. From the shadows they could make out the faint glow of gold and silver in addition to the crackling radio. Myka couldn’t make out the words, but she knew getting caught would not bode well for her upcoming tenure.

_Because I probably won’t live to see it._

H.G. clung to Myka’s hand. She sensed the professor’s tremor and gave it a squeeze which was instantly returned. With everything going on in that treasure room and the dark tunnel which they couldn’t make a peep in, the gesture spoke what it needed to.

_I’m here, love._

The other half of their team approached on shuffling feet.

“Huh, guess I was right about another treasure room.”

Myka pressed a finger to her lips, shushing Pete. She jerked her head towards the opening of the passage then used two fingers to point from her eyes to the room echoing with radio crackles. Pete licked his lips, squinting at her sign language and shook his head, giving up. Myka’s lips formed an angry thin line before she repeated the gesture. She then jabbed him in the chest (causing him to scowl like a four-year-old) and made a driving hand motion towards the treasure room.

“Can you just speak English?” Pete rushed out. “And stop poking me!”

“Myka and I will stay here and watch the passageway,” H.G. interpreted, “while you and Steve distract Lallement’s guard.”

Pete’s head jerked back. “You understood all that?”

H.G. shrugged, smirking.

“Right,” he deduced. The blush Myka was sporting explained everything. “Let’s go, Jinksy.”

“I’m a trained FBI agent and even I didn’t get that,” Steve whispered to Pete as they crept ahead. “It’s gotta be a woman thing.”

Pete cocked his head as if it were plausible, then said rather surely, “Or a love connection thing.”

“A what?”

“Dude, someone needs to tune their gaydar.”

“My gaydar is working just fine, trust me.”

“Not around those two it’s not. My ping practically goes nuclear when Myka and H.G. are even in the same room. And those googly eyes Myka gives her? Freaking adorable. And I don’t say ‘adorable’ often. And H.G.’s smoldering glances and innocent hand touches? Man, is it getting hot in here or is it just me?” Pete fanned his shirt, grinning like an adolescent boy. “You’re up Jinksy boy!” Pete called as they made it to the entrance, slapping his partner on the back before a word in edgewise could be made.

One sole henchman stood at the center of the treasure room. He looked to be in his mid-forties, average height, and slim build. He wore plain clothing, though mostly in shades of black. His back was turned as Steve sneaked around him. At just the right moment he tapped the muscular shoulder.

“Who are you?” asked the henchman.

“I’m with the French Department of Health and Safety. These ceilings aren’t standard regulation.”

He gave pause, and then sneered, reaching for his sidearm. “You’re not the authorities.”

“No, I’m not,” Steve agreed, rather at ease with the mounting situation. He pointed behind the henchman. “But he is.”

Too late did Lallement’s man see him for Pete’s fist was in the way. He was down for the count.

“Yo, Adrian!” Pete hooted, fist churning the air in triumph.

“Will you keep it down?” Steve hissed. “There might be more of them! And I am not your Adrian,” he added testily.

“Hey, everyone needs an Adrian,” Pete said unapologetically. “Who’s yours?”

Steve was looking into the next tunnel, his ear tuned for footsteps. “What? Huh?”

“You’re Adrian, you’re One, the cheese to your macaroni.” Pete waited and got nothing. “Your Angelina Jolie to your Brad Pitt?”

A sheepish grin graced the ex-FBI agent’s face. “No offense to Angelina, but if my Brad is out there I’m sure he’s not in the basement of a black market dealing sociopath.”

Pete stared for a moment, blankly, his rusty cogged wheels screeching with the turns. He then broke out into a wide smile, head bobbing. “Right on!”

“Right on what?” Myka came up behind them.

“Jinksy here was just telling me –“

“Right on schedule!” Steve answered. He smiled at his partner and clapped him on the back. “With the mission because who has time for anything else?”

The footsteps were soft and the team was distracted, so they didn’t see it coming. A group of Lallement’s men came lurking out of the shadows, one grabbing Steve from behind. Pete took on the other two, fists flying and head butting. After Steve successfully subdued his attacker with a choke hold he dove in to help his partner.

Myka stood a distance away, gun drawn and standing protectively in front of H.G. Though she had her fair share of fights in the past this situation did not play by the rules of Chicago’s finest dojo. The attacks were dirty and unpredictable. These men were willing to kill and from the looks of it were frighteningly accommodating to incapacitate. Myka’s pupils dilated as they memorized the choreography of the assaults. Midst the grunts, shouts, and clashing of priceless relics her heart pumped soundly in her ears. It was thrilling and dangerous, addicting and consequential. Fight or flight at its finest.

H.G. shouted irately from behind, “This is not what I signed up for! Guns and strangulation…”

Pete, pinned to the wall, clubbed his attacker in the back. “It’s all a part of the job!”

H.G. gave him a curt nod. “Well, you can keep them. I, however, possess alternative means to incapacitate.”

“Do I wanna know what that means?” Pete squinted, momentarily distracted from his predicament.

More men charged in from nowhere. H.G. stepped up to the first opponent and striked the side of his neck with her hand, kneed his stomach and used leverage of her right arm to flip him head over heels.

“When did you learn Kenpo?” Myka asked wide-eyed. She was familiar with the style but slightly jarred by not knowing such a detail about her friend.

H.G. sent a knuckle strike to the next man’s sternum. “Did you think I spent all those years in witness protection and not learn a bit of self-defense?” She swept a leg from under him, sending him to the ground choking.

Aside from how beautiful H.G. looked with her floating black hair and agile limbs, such a conversational tone during a voracious fighting sequence had Myka all smiles. H.G., cheeks burning and lungs panting, shared it for a few intensely arousing seconds before the fighting resumed.

With Steve diving for cover from a round of bullets, Pete was in a more troubling situation. One of the henchmen had a good arm thrown about his neck. The pair of them were doubled over, Pete trying to flip his attacker, the attacker trying to steal the air from his very lungs.

“Peeete!” Myka’s voice cracked as she focused her gun. “I don’t want to kill anyone! Do I have to kill anyone?”

“Jusht…” Pete gasped around the rather hefty bicep, “schoot… footh… legh… anywhere!”

Myka exhaled and took the shot. The sound bounced off the gallery walls with a sharp, resonating crack. Pete’s eyes widened. Myka waited, eyes searching.

“Peeete?”

The agent grunted and coughed. With considerable effort he let the henchman slide to the ground with a thump. Pete straightened, unscathed. “Nice shot, Doctor! I take back what I said about civilians packing heat.”

Myka still had her SIG-Sauer on the enemy. Her green eyes were as wide as saucers. “D-did I kill him?”

Pete kicked the downed attacker whose chest was still rising and falling. “Just unconscious.” If they weren’t in the middle of a battle he would have eased her gun down and patted her on the shoulder with a comforting, “You did good, Myka” but there was no time for pleasantries or mentor pep talks.

Out of the corner of her eye, H.G. spotted movement. However, it was not the presence of the henchmen she had severely immobilized that she sensed. This shadow had a more menacing quality to it. The form reeked of death and secrets. She gave chase.

“Go after her!” Pete noticed Myka’s worried glance and started clearing a path for her. If it were not for her cautious nature or recently proven skills with a gun he wouldn’t let her take one more step. Then again, he was pretty damn sure there was no hope of dissuading her. Not even the vibe stirring within him could stop this woman from dashing after her friend. “Steve and I got this!”

Myka swallowed and raced after the ends of drifting black hair. H.G. never slowed. The pair of their boots clapped the stone as they chased down the shadow. Expectation was thrown to the wind. Not a single plan could have prepared them for what they would find. At the end of the tunnel and the last room of the basement, nothing could prove a single hypothesis of the scientific and inventive mind of H.G. Wells.

The voice of a stranger and a known adversary alike boomed in their ears.

“It was so good of you to follow.”


	11. Chapter 11

The deep, French accent spoke from within the large chamber. It was danker than the rest, circular, and its walls were lined with stone columns. The windows near the ceiling let in small rays of natural light. The space was greater in size, higher ceilings, stone flooring, but not a single treasure in sight. It felt vacant and cold.

“And without backup.”

Without flinching, Myka’s gun rose to eye level. She glared down the barrel, teeth clenched behind pursed lips. What frightened her most was how outgunned this man, presumed to be Lallement, was. It was by no accident that the agent rushed in, bringing a gun to a snark fight. Chased him into a corner, no less. No, Lallement must have had something up his sleeve to turn the tables. Since discovering the Warehouse and its prerogative in hunting down dangerous artifacts, it was becoming frighteningly clear to Myka how little comfort her sidearm afforded in that chamber. As this Frenchman stood, hands in pockets, smiling and quite content at gunpoint, Myka felt like the punch line of a joke.

Gaspard Lallement did not look commonplace in the eerie chamber he stood in. He wore a three piece pinstripe suit that made Bill Gates seem like a pauper. The gold tie clip and ring on his pinky finger danced in the light as did his brushed to a glossy finish shoes. His slicked, straw blonde hair was touched with grey at the ears and temples. He was clean shaven, hardly any sign of facial hair.

Lallement’s image was the very definition of looking like a million dollars, despite the setting. He looked far from the kooky, sociopath the team’s imagination made him out to be. However, if appearances were deceiving (and their research accurate), then this rich billionaire could very well be the black market dealer, killer, and extortionist he was. The maniacal laugh they chased down sure fit the bill.

Piercing grey like storm clouds, his eyes creased to make out the twin outlines. The womanly figures stood close enough that only a whisper of air passed between. So close that two became one, where you could not decipher where one began and ended. A collector and connoisseur of many fine works, Lallement had laid eyes on indescribable beauty in all its forms. Many a time had his breath been taken from him in the galleries of museums and gold adorned palaces. He was a man of heavy pocket and he spent in good taste. The very castle they stood beneath held more spectacles than the Louvre itself.

But no treasure he owned or sought to own could surpass the quiet symmetry that these two women embodied. Combined with his investigations, this real life sketch displayed the stark differences between them, in their postures, their pasts, the shadows that followed them daily. Their methods, one impulsive the other methodical, their personalities, one timid and the other eccentric… it all balanced itself out, combing two varying halves like two unfit puzzle pieces. There was a quality of oneness about his foes as evidenced by their distance apart. Their bodies were as magnetic to each other as their paths. It was fantastical to behold, but an itch his right brain couldn’t scratch. The analytical, opportunistic side of Lallement, which was always the more dominant, called for a more invasive technique than mere artistic observation.

They hadn’t spoken, and neither had Lallement. He appreciated silence, and the tremors that filled its spaces. His chin dipped as he observed Myka and H.G.’s attention drawing away from him and to the very center of the chamber.

“Yes, yes,” he goaded, “splendid timing.” His laugh met with a gesture to the focus of their gazes. “Your husband has been waiting for you.”

Her eyes flickered up to Lallement, their brown irises widening in horror before panning back to the black cloth head, bowed as if in prayer. He never looked so submissive. Years ago she would have sacrificed anything to see her husband like this, spent, bloody, and broken. He sat in a wooden chair, his feet and hands tied in a manner similar to that of a pivotal memory. The sight sent a shock of current through her veins. It rushed in, icy and chaffing beneath the skin where she couldn’t strip it or suck it out like poison. Just watching was torture. She couldn’t imagine what was going on beneath the skin of a tongueless man crying out for her help any more than between the flaps of lacerated skin of a faceless man she once shared a life with, had a child by.

“Lewis,” she breathed.

H.G. had suffered at the hands of Lewis Webb. Some of it was intentional, other times it was not. After eight years H.G. still didn’t care about Lewis, but curiosity had a way of rearing its ugly head. She wanted to know his fate. She desired closure after all these years. If protecting Christina was her shameless reason for embarking on this mission, Lewis was her ashamed reason. She wanted the satisfaction of seeing his face when she told him of the amazing daughter she raised on her own and without the help of his bloody bread or title. Lewis may have lived in a real world devoid of folly and fantasy, but there would be no legacy. He would never know the satisfaction of putting a child to sleep with words written by his own hand. He could never imagine the bright future that lay before his own flesh and blood. H.G. wanted him to feel that sense of loss and if he didn’t she would brand it into his skin so he’d never forget. She needed closure either way, in the form of a defeated sob or a sear to flesh.

_It would appear someone beat me to it._

“Tell me, do you prefer him this way?” And with little flair or flourish he pinched the cloth and revealed the trick. “A lovely prelude to the business at hand, vous ne pensez pas?”

Lewis Webb. Dead. The inert, glassy eyes were frozen open by rigor mortis. The eyes that once smiled when they first met hers; that cried tears of joy when she said “Yes” to his question, and inflamed when she took rights to leave his side forever. H.G. watched as those same eyes stared straight and true into nothingness. It was enough to process before H.G. slammed her own eyes shut. This was not the kind of closure she anticipated.

Beside her Myka gasped. The slight tremor in it was enough to snap H.G. to attention. “How do you know who I am?”

“Helena Wells, born September 21, 1976 in Bromley and raised in your father’s pathetic trinket shop. Studied at university against your family’s aspirations and became a supreme rebel when our mutual friend came along. Your disobedient streak continued when you married for love –“

“That is debatable,” H.G. sneered.

Lallement chuckled, head tipped fondly towards the corpse. “A one-sided debate, at that. Á propos.” He turned on his heel and started a slow pace. “From a bird’s eye view the marriage was ideal. You were afforded what any wife required and more. You supported him publicly, stood by his side as he did yours. But behind the curtain… ah, that was something else entirely, no?” When H.G. didn’t offer up a response he drove on. “Much alike a hostage in luxury you, Helena, had no choice amid all that wealth. Your husband belittled your ambitions, wounded you with falsehoods, and made you out as a coward.”

“Stop!” barked Myka. Her gun was lowered to her side, but the ultimatum lacing her shout was more of a threat. She saw how Lallement’s rant was affecting H.G. More importantly, she felt the guilt radiating from her in waves. If the onslaught was battering H.G. the result of it was tearing Myka’s heart in two. She was well within her rights to shoot this sociopath, but her gun weighed a thousand pounds in her grasp and her feet were rooted to the stone floor. “You’re hurting her,” she accused weakly, eyes burning.

“So you left him,” Lallement said, untouched by the professor’s demands, “and raised his daughter all on your own. Chicago may be a bustling city entrenched with American culture and celebrity, but for one damned to witness protection it is a prison, not so unlike the one you escaped I would presume. And after all the sufferings you became a teacher, using that mind to bring your pupils on the brink of slumber. The legacy of Helena G. Wells,” he concluded with a raise of his hands as if the void in their grasp represented her accomplishments. He smiled at how easily these facts were brought to his attention. Information was always more easily bought than wealth. “I am more resourceful than your Warehouse employer thinks. In fact, one of my greatest is – or was – you hus –“

“Stop calling him that!” H.G. cried, eyes glassy and hands shaking. “He is not…” her throat constricted and she tried to overcome it with a soft whimper. She could feel sorrowful green eyes on her, caressing the side of her face as tears did. H.G. didn’t know if it was a comfort or if it made it harder for her to follow through. “He is not mine. He never was. Lewis Webb never had my heart. He is not the one…” She could have finished the sentence, but it just made sense in that split second that _one_ fell from her lips that it ended there.

_Lewis is not my One._

_He never could be._

“And Dr. Bering, you wouldn’t think I forgot about you?” He smiled at her defiant expression. “Myka Bering born December 1, 1978 in Colorado Springs, USA. Thanks to your parents you grew up with a love for the written word. You are well-read, possess skills in fencing, self-defense, and firearms, can speak several fluent languages besides English, and actually managed to find an occupation that puts your history degree to use. Whether or not you enjoy the day in, day out torments of Chicago University and its students I will leave to more applicable hands to judge. However, for as healthy as you are in mind and body, emotionally you are… how do I put this… detached? You make up for your lack of personal relationships by controlling every aspect of your life, organizing each piece into its own precise location. If travel arrangements or childhood dreams do not coincide with your schedule they are simply swept off the table.” He slapped his hands together with a finality that made Myka flinch. “Have I missed anything? Besides, of course, the father issues that are quite toxic as well as tedious.”

“He’s just trying to wear us down,” Myka whispered, her eyes never leaving Lallement’s. When she didn’t get a reply she turned to H.G. The very sight made Myka want to wrap her up and whisk them far, far away. Her friend, an imaginative woman with a great capacity to love, remained immobile, warring between charging at their enemy with her fists and sinking to the ground in defeat. The consideration behind those brown eyes, the consideration to forfeit, disturbed her as much as the clenching fists at her side. “We can’t let him get to us.” Her encouragement was wearing thin before this unacquainted spectacle.

Indulgent smile ever present, Lallement walked to the chamber wall. “You have nothing to fear from me, mademoiselle.” He pried open one of the bricks. Myka could barely make out the keypad inside and the code punched in. The instrument panel beeped three times in quick succession before a low rumble, like stones grinding against each other, sounded. His eyes pierced into Myka, warning, “But perhaps from the extraordinary.” A surface of the wall opened to reveal a secret alcove illuminated by an installed light. From inside, the black basalt piece and its etchings glossed to a shine under the light.

Myka’s eyes widened, her heart hammering in her chest. The historian in her was thrilled at the find. In all her years studying and teaching she never would have thought to be standing where she was. She was discovering a piece of history, she was there, _living_ it. Despite the doubts of many historians, a small part, the childlike hope in Myka always believed the missing piece to exist. Something, not her education but an instinct, always convinced her that this lost artifact of Egypt, of the _world_ , continued to evade the quests of the righteous and unworthy alike. Jealousy encapsulated her as she watched Lallement take the stone from its hiding place. It even looked to be the same size and weight as scientists have theorized.

“Seek and ye shall find,” Lallement mused. He cradled the stone like a precious newborn. “Knock and it shall be opened unto you.”

The heady sensation of wonder was shattered and replaced with the liquid chill slithering back up Myka’s spine. This was the leverage she feared their enemy possessed. She was armed, yes, and H.G. had startling qualifications in Kenpo, but it may not be enough, Lallement hinted, against the extraordinary.

“When the men I hired failed to acquire the Stone I carried the deed out myself. Lewis was not my only means of tracking down what I desired, but he was the most resourceful. In fact, his mind was filled with such valued information that I retained his services.”

H.G. bit the inside of her cheek until her tongue savored copper. She blinked at the stiff, tortured form and understood that the services Lallement spoke of were anything but willingly offered.

“You see, the Rosetta Stone – the larger of the two halves – is still out there. But I managed to get my hands on this petit ange.”

_Yes, that is quite the little angel you are holding._

_I would bloody like to shove it down your throat._

“What your pathetic Warehouse mainframes might not compute is that together the two stones give its possessor the power of telepathy. Though it is far more powerful with its missing counterpart, this one beautiful section has absorbed a small capability of reading the mind.” His white teeth flashed beneath a chuckle. “I know what you are thinking. ‘It is a ruse! He is playing us for fools!’” He shook his head, eyes closed lightly and fingers pawing the stone’s worded grooves. “No, no, no. This is no magic trick. I would never endeavor to lie about a prize such as this. I was illuminated by this angel’s power during my… _discussions_ with Monsieur Webb.” He stepped forward and stretched out a hand, palm up as if offering an innocent waltz. “Would you prefer a demonstration?”

Sharing eye contact that made her skin crawl, Myka opened her mouth to tell him to go to hell. But he had already started. Words, unfamiliar to her highly cultured mind, ran from Lallement’s lips. There was no melody to it. No beauty. Just stunted, rough sentences spoken by an ignorant tongue. However ugly it sounded it did the trick. The archaic language swirling and seeped into her brain and made her feel something she never could imagine.

The cry pierced through the dry, dusted air. It reverberated around the circular chamber like a spasm and penetrated her ears like a thousand knife points. H.G. had never heard so anguished a sound. The shrieks emanating from Myka’s mouth were inhuman. They were distorted and broken, pained and hopeless. It was an unimaginable sound. At once, H.G. joined Myka on the floor, knees clapping the stone, and hugged the delirium like a child that had lost its way.

“Myka,” she said over the howling, “tell me what is wrong.”

Myka was clutching her head in agony and rocking back and forth. Her friend was in excruciating pain and she could see it or touch it or vanquish it.

“What hurts, darling?” H.G. had turned to begging and felt that her own mind had succumbed to delirium as well. Hot tears flooded her vision and stained the chestnut curls to a dark chocolate. “Myka… Myka…” she repeated in a fever.

Myka was so closed off from the world she could have been a prisoner in Plato’s cave. Reality was but shadows. Words ceased to propose meaning. Since his first syllable, Lallement’s ancient reiterations flooded her brain with thousands of languages, some she didn’t recognize. She experienced every dialect imaginable from 196 BC to the present; every system of communication passed from one hand of a mason to the next of an industrialist; across oceans and territories, from Manchuria to Peru and Singapore to Denmark.

Myka’s chords strained to the cries. She had long ceased control over her own voice. The contracting muscles under her skin, the jerks and twitches of her limbs, and the tremor along her vertebrae were left in the hands of neurons and synaptic connections. Every motor command was a response to the unimaginable discomfort beneath her skull.

The images of scrawling script and echoes of speech continued to enter Myka’s consciousness like a landslide. If they had slowed down to a more manageable speed the professor would have enjoyed this ‘historical glimpse’ but it was far too much for one human mind to handle. Too much of a good thing, like eating an entire carton of ice cream and ending up with brain freeze. It was like sand filtering through a sieve that passed through easily if poured at a fixed, slow rate, but bulldoze it in all at once and it breaks the filter. The filter, in this case, being Myka’s mind.

Whether her brain would freeze to ice or be consumed by fire Myka couldn’t know. All she knew was pain. In addition to images the stone’s power gave her the opportunity to experience the same distress others before her had suffered at the hands of this artifact. Pain and knowledge passed down through the ages. It was too much of a burden that it sent her into convulsions.

“Myka… Myka…”

Thin, frail hands covered Myka’s, trying to pry them from her head so the nails don’t draw blood. H.G. was a mess of tears and crumbling designs. All she wanted was to take on the burden herself. She wanted Myka, the woman she loved, to remain untouched, heart beating, and lips smiling their lopsided smile. As one came apart at the seams and the other lost their mind to disproportionate wonder, there was barely enough strength between the two of them to see the transfer through.

“Leave her be!” she shouted to no one, anyone. Her forehead braced against matted curls. “You don’t deserve this. Not you.”

The last syllables slip from Lallement and the images and the screaming stops. The inscription on the stone glowed bright gold and then faded back to its glossy black state. Myka sobed out in relief just as H.G. felt the tension leave from the body in her arms. She sagged into the safety of her friend like she could slip onto a weightless cloud.

“It does give a terrible headache, no?” asked Lallement, sarcasm dripping foul from his lips. He watched with interest as H.G. whispered into her friend’s hair. It was as he didn’t exist, as if his presence meant nothing. Lallement’s lip curled at the scene of this lover’s embrace. He did not like to be ignored. “While she was in unimaginable torture the stone allowed me to pluck unripened seeds from her mind. You are afraid, Dr. Bering,” he addressed the deeply breathing Myka. “Afraid of dying, yes, but also of failing in your duty. You fear disappointing… Artie. But most surprising,” a frown darkened his face, “you are filled with excitement and wonder. Chalk it up to adrenaline in a desperate situation, yet you, Myka Bering, are quite content to be here right now.” He laughed, seemingly overjoyed over this puzzle. “Intrigant.”

He looked to the corpse of Lewis Webb and then at H.G. and asked her, “Shall I read your mind?”

She looked up finally, eyes filled with tears and renewed vengeance. She rose, leaving Myka crouched and recuperating on the floor. “How about I save you the trouble.” Her voice didn’t waver. She suddenly felt a burst of strength flood her system, brought on by Myka’s near death and the lively gasps that continued to fill the chamber. Like a phoenix from the ashes she was rejuvenated. “I am remorseful, but not in the way you presume. Lewis deserved his fate. He was foolish to consort with people like you and the money only sullied him further. I convinced myself that my lies would be protecting my Christina. And they did. But the moment I became faithful to another, the _second_ I spoke truth it damned her to this peril.” The heel of her boot grazed the stone as H.G. stepped forward. “I am sorry for many things, the greatest being that you and I did not meet sooner. I should have finished this in England when Lewis was on trial and my daughter but months old. Before I ever met Myka.”

“We both know you cannot change the past, especially your own. And even if it could be done, that day you chanced upon Dr. Bering would be erased. It would be as if you never met.” His chin dipped condescendingly. He spoke to her as if she were a child. “Surely no one would risk such a friendship.”

H.G.’s throat constricted. Her voice was barely a whisper. “She would be safe.”

Her soft expression was diversion enough. Without warning her body lunged forward, arms outstretched to break any vital part of Lallement that kept him breathing in this world. It was too great a distance too close, however, and he stepped back and resumed the spell. H.G. cried out just as his lips moved. She clutched her head like it was cracking in half. She doubled over, hands clawing at the stone flooring.

Myka was already on her feet. Consciousness returned, her mind was clear and her anger renewed. H.G.’s screams cut into her and it pained her to know exactly what her friend was experiencing. Myka’s nostrils flaired and her hands clenched mightily at her side. She took the opportunity to catch Lallement off-guard, coming at him from the side and sending them both crashing against the wall.

The stone’s connection with H.G. was severed, leaving her panting on the ground. While her mind eased back into clarity, Myka and Lallement continue to struggle. In her effort to pry the artifact from the man’s steel grip she backed unexpectedly into the chair, knocking it down along with the departed Lewis. Lallement’s eyes widen as the stone slipped. A wave of golden light spread from the epicenter of the cracked lesser half of the Rosetta Stone. He dropped to his knees before the wreckage, hands shaking at the sides of his face. His inheritance, his birth right, the treasure he spent years and coin tirelessly searching for was dust. Ever since the story was recounted to him as a child he dreamed of returning his family’s property and showing the world that the greatest discovery in human history was a hoax.

His head rose from the ash, his eyes following later. They met Myka who was starting to understand how significant her part was in destroying this sociopath’s obsession. She was vulnerable and they both knew duty would never win over obsession.

In a blind rage Lallement attacked. His fists sought her jacket and brought her roughly upright only to catapult her into one of the stone columns. The back of her skull cracked against its surface and she fell lifeless to the ground.

H.G. heard the crack like a call to arms. She didn’t see it happen but she knew it was Myka who crumpled. An animalistic growl sounded as H.G. charged forward. She unleashed a fury of uppercuts, hooks, and jabs. She evaded his attacks by transferring her body weight instead of blocking, allowing herself the time and freedom to strike back. A series of uncoordinated but powerful blows rained upon Lallement, tiring him in mere minutes. He put up a fight, but H.G. was more skilled, not to mention more motivated than he and his broken trifle.

Soon Lallement’s awkward footing tripped him to the ground.

In her eerie calm H.G. turned away. “What say we end this, hm?”

She stooped to pick up Myka’s absent gun. Walking with purpose and threatening charm she stood above her victim. The weapon she swore never to handle, the instrument deemed too uncivilized for her imaginings, the gun that her palm pressed as its previous owner’s had was trained on Lallement. Her thoughts were filled with Christina’s giggles, her petulant urgings, and the good tears. Her heart was overflowing with affection for the best friend she ever had or would have, the love for a woman who stole her breath and whose demise brought her to these depths.

Gaspar Lallement realized defeat with silence. His eyes panned from the gun to the H.G. as he bet against her motivations.

Behind the point of a gun she witnessed his sigh of relief. It occurred to H.G. that he saw something in her that eased his mind. But all H.G. felt was the same thing that had haunted her for eight years. Fear, vengeance, the need to shelter. And new feelings, too, rushed through her. Overwhelming love, desperation, and rage. These sensations in particular were vital in tightening her hold on the gun’s grip. Her finger caressed the trigger as it would the skin of a lover. It could end there with one shot through the heart. The thought was plucked from the clouds and brought down for the scientific eye of H.G. Wells, drawn closer to manage the idea and nurture it to maturity. Her loving finger curled and squeezed.

“Helena,” Myka tried to shout but it only came as a moan. Her vision was blurry from the fall and her head was pounding. “Don’t,” she managed.

_I’m alright, Helena._

_Christina’s safe._

_We’re all going to be okay._

The shot rang throughout the chamber, so loud it deafened the ears. Myka shrunk back to the ground, covering her head. When she looked up she saw H.G. standing over Lallement’s cooling body. The gun was smoking wisps from its barrel. Her hand made no move to tremble. A definitive act without hesitation or afterthought.

Five months ago Myka hadn’t known a single thing about this woman. Helena Wells was a mystery and an engaging presence that stirred every cell in Myka’s body. Forty-eight hours ago she would have claimed to know everything there was to know about her friend. Myka knew how she took her tea, what books she preferred, how she’d spend the night watching over her daughter whenever a simple cold was contracted, and her persistence in offering her scarf to special friends on chilly nights.

Myka shifted on the cold stone, easing her back against the wall to gain her bearings. H.G. appeared more clearly in her vision. She was a teacher and a brilliant scientist who could see what others couldn’t. She was a mother and dear friend even if only to a few who tolerated her. Helena Wells was a woman to be admired, respected, lusted, and loved. Myka had experienced those from H.G. and returned every single one in earnest. The latter, however, was so fresh it frazzled Myka to her bones. Frazzled in a good way, a way that tore down her walls, cradled her timid nature, and rearranged the sentences in mind to bumbling distortion. She was in love with the reluctant teacher and the scientist. She was in love with the passionate writer even if not a single word had been published. She was in love with the mother, the friend, the insufferable pursuer of her heart.

But as Myka blinked away the dull ache spreading across her skull she saw the smoking instrument in H.G.’s hand and realized something paramount.

_I’m in love with a killer._


	12. Chapter 12

_I’m in love with a killer._

Myka felt ill, the color in her face paling. Her shoulder blades bit into the wall and she could retreat no further. Myka hid behind nothing as she sat, back against the stone, the safety draining from her eyes just as they saw it leaving H.G.’s.

Myka knew one of the reasons why she cared for H.G. was because of her wild need to protect the people she loved. She had proven herself by providing shelter, clothing, and food for her child. Against her better judgment her name and history was kept from the only woman who refused to be protected by falsehoods. Persistence reigned supreme with fists a blur, cradling arms, and a poisonous tongue. Myka had never felt safer in those arms. The necessity to safeguard her daughter and her best friend was entrenched in H.G. like the blood flowing through her veins.

Yet there was a price to be paid for such a trait. H.G. could be blinded by her passions just like she could when submerged in a ‘groundbreaking scientific discovery.’ Her passions were so consuming that the magnitude of their effects evaporated. No rules or mores could deter her from the ultimate goal. They were but mere suggestions meant to be flung away, destroyed, and ignored. To H.G. they were insignificant footnotes, much like the consequences of killing a human being.

Footsteps rushed in. Pete and Steve screech to a halt at the smell of gunpowder and the scene of two dead men.

“What… happened…” Steve started, unable to grasp the obvious question. He couldn’t take his eyes off the bodies.

“Myka!” Pete raced to the woman’s side, helping her up from the ground. “We heard a gunshot. Are you hurt?”

She recoiled slightly as the agent patted her down. His eyes sprinted over the length of her body, checking for evidence of a gunshot wound. Myka took a step back, cupping her elbows into the palms of her hands. Her brow furrowed. Since a child she was uncomfortable with being on display and especially unsettled by physical contact (even if it was from family or Pete Lattimer). It couldn’t be dismissed that the need to shrink in on herself was also because she had just been through a harrowing ordeal. Myka did _not_ want to be touched right now.

“What’s wrong?” Pete asked because he wasn’t the dolt people made him out to be. Most of the time.

“Pete…” Myka’s voice broke. She looked to the ground, breathed, blinked, and then lifted her head.

His eyes followed the teary gaze to _her_.

“I don’t understand.” Pete frowned at Myka before looking back at H.G. and the gun still smoking and held on Lallement’s body. His eyes met the professor again. “Myka?”

“I think you need to give us a minute.” The grogginess in her tone did not deter the command. “Both of you,” she addressed to Steve.

“We’ll give you a few,” Steve said, vaguely. He tore his eyes from the scene and dragged Pete away.

Again, Myka and H.G. were alone in the chamber. Though not entirely alone.

She was careful in evading the blood pools, only the toes of her boots touching the dry areas of the floor. A shiver almost sent her off balance. She didn’t dare look down at the man still secured to the fallen chair.

“Can I have that back?” Myka thought she was going to pass out. Her heart was thrashing inside her ribcage and if it didn’t slow down, if she couldn’t take a calming breath Myka feared she would die of a beating heart. Her hand ventured for the gun, slowly, nonthreateningly. “Helena?” she prompted, voice quaking.

As if in a dream, H.G. turned from the body and floated past the professor without a word or a glance. She dropped to her knees beside her dead ex-husband and bowed her head, paying her respects (to her lover or his killer’s fine work?). The gun clattered to the floor, forgotten.

What appearances refused before were finally brought to the forefront in vivid detail.

Lewis’ form was a visceral example of what the human body could not endure, an example H.G. couldn’t stomach to put to paper in novel form. She was not one for the horror genre – more one for the fantastical. And the mortifying wounds that scored through Lewis’s body were fantastically brutal. His eyes remained as lifelessly inert as his figure. The lightly tanned skin of a dislocated shoulder molded over unset bones. Burns penetrated several layers of skin, blistering and pink. Blood and pus had ceased its flow and dried into smears and caked crumbles, however, long, gaping lacerations to his were still pooled with shimmering fluid. Post-mortem bruising from his crash to the floor spread through his side and arm in a shade of plum.

But that wasn’t enough. H.G. controlled her gag reflex at how four of the ten fingers had been ‘dealt with.’ Fingers was putting it lightly as everyone was without it’s nail counterpart and the tips of the four were scattered in congealed plasma. The whole thing wasn’t necessarily messy. There was a precision to each wound, an exacting justification behind every puncture between a pair of ribs. It was the work of a master. It was the necessity of a madman. Lallement wanted his treasure, his birth right and no earsplitting scream would discourage him from cutting deeper. The red curdling in various orifices was a testament to how far the Frenchman went, and how successful the techniques were utilized in gaining information.

H.G.’s roved over Lewis, from his matted blonde hair to his bloody toes. Her nostrils flared around the smell; rancid, reeking, the burnt flesh giving off a unique scent of sweet charcoal. It was nauseating, but her lips were pasted shut. She swallowed to keep down the bile burning a hole in her stomach. H.G. wore herself away over an inner struggle. She fought to reflect her way to distraction.

H.G. hated so much and with such intensity that it warped her justifications. Why did she feel Lallement had to die for her to live? Why couldn’t he be handed over to the authorities and laid to rot in a prison far from Christina and from Myka? Did judgment coincide with a bullet from a gun? H.G. had not the answers to these questions. She did know something, though. She had no more hatred left. So large and cavernous a space was filled with the inevitable: fear. There was no guarantee that she would have lived. If the weapon had simply been tossed to the side Lallement could have secured his own coup d’état (it was his chamber, after all, and undoubtedly fixed with booby traps and the like). No one could know if Lallement made it all the way to incarceration. He was a wealthy, illustrious man who had bribed the French police on more than one occasion. What could stop him this time? Surely not a law or uniform.

H.G. was not about to leave it up to chance. Taking matters into her own hands was the only foreseeable option.

_I ended it once and for the benefit of all._

_But if I ended it why am I so filled with dread?_

It is not as she expected, the aftermath. No relief, no lifted weight from her shoulders, just shock that a man’s life ended by her hands. The blow of Lewis’ death was equal strength. He may have been a monster, but she loved him at one time. Lewis may have ignored her as his wife, but he had made her laugh once. He may have scorned her as a woman, but he had given her every resource available to her imagination.

Eyes roving over the wounds and dried blood, H.G. could no longer hold a stick to the anger fostered for Lewis.

He did not deserve the fate that was handed to him and she would think of him no more. The first time they met, their wedding night, the hardships she endured as his wife, and his betrayals as husband and decent chap she fell for would take up no more space in her memory. Lewis Webb was no more a part of H.G.’s life than he was in the land of the living.

It all came to a head there. All faults were realized. She loved a monster, she kept her daughter from loving grandparents, she lied to Myka…more mistake than anything, she refused to believe that their friendship meant more than either of them realized. The worst part: she knew and didn’t do anything about it. That night in the park, when they breathed fog and heard the faint melody of jazz, before Mrs. Frederic showed herself, H.G. had planned to tell Myka. And oh, did she have plans for them: the truth, for starters, and tales of her past, Christina’s father, how her heart came to a sudden halt at the sight of an awkward professor and her spilt coffee. There would be a kiss, and gentle touches if H.G. played her cards right. There would have been dinners, operas, lemon meringue for one but shared by two. Together they would tuck in a little girl for bed, Myka would stay the night, and they would share in what was meant to be. Things would change, their friendship would blossom, making room for _more_ , and they would learn the most wondrous things about one another. ‘Emily Lake’ would become ‘Helena Wells’ and Myka would love as she was loved in return.

But in her nervous state and with the entrance of an old, unwelcome friend, H.G.’s ambitious plan fell to pieces. It broke down, bit by bit; each meticulously crafted idea for idea, much like H.G. was coming apart, tear by tear, mistake for mistake, on her knees of the chamber floor.

H.G. may have had confidence in mind, fully conscious that her theories were correct and scientifically attestable, but the snootiness she exerted in her abilities was lacking when the heart was involved. Credit was not afforded to the lengths H.G. would go to protect Myka. The only time egotism and self-flattery were rejected was when she loved Myka like no one could. There was no room for faith in the ability to love and be loved, especially after so monumental a sentence carried out at the squeeze of a trigger. It occurred to H.G., then, that what she wanted was not what was deserved.

_Myka… oh Myka…_

Whether by repulsion or timidity, Myka kept at a distance. She stood some ways back, mentally berating her shaking frame and physically stemming it by bracing her arms to her sides. She waited, for H.G. to stop the fragmented, barely-there sobs, for H.G. to come to her senses, for some force to take her by the arms and shake her into reality. Myka couldn’t be the one. Not now.

Myka looked on her trembling friend but didn’t dare go near, not to comfort, not to shake. H.G. needed this moment, this solitude after the storm. This sobbing pile on the floor was eight years in the making and it all had boiled over with the catalyst of a single lead bullet.

With one small hiccup H.G. wiped all evidence from her face and rose to her feet. Her expression morphs to surprise as if she didn’t expect Myka to be there, as if she was never there at all. The shock abated and slipped back to sadness, her eyes widening at how the professor looked like an island. She approached Myka in two quick strides and by the time the woman’s face was in her hands her pale features softened a different way.

Myka, still frightened for her life, stood still as the stone columns that encircled them.

“I frightened you,” H.G. gathered. It wasn’t difficult to deduce. The woman’s emerald eyes had never been so wide, so glassy, her stance never this rigid. The long, lovely throat H.G. had dreamed of stroking and placing her lips to bobbed to undeveloped sobs. The realization invaded her heart with such precision, such ferocity H.G. wanted to tear the thing out. “I am still frightening you.”

It startled Myka so that her lashes fluttered and she inhaled sharply. Suddenly, at the sight of those brown, deep pools, the ones imprinted on her memory, the ones that were filled with gentle authenticity, her heart eased of its thrashing.

“No,” she sighed.

She shook her head, convincing the both of them. Soon she was finally able to touch H.G. She reached out and spread her hands on the arms in front of her. It was a reassurance. One couldn’t touch what one feared. If Myka could latch onto H.G. without a flinch or a recoil then there was no need for suspicions or nasty doubts.

The message was received and the response instantaneous. Wrists were grabbed – hard – and pried away. Myka whimpered, not out of pain but of stubborn faith. The ruthlessness in H.G.’s eyes, the kind of performance a thespian put on, snapped Myka to action. She understood why it was happening and struggled to return the captive hands to their proper place around arms that needed the security. Her wrists jerked and twisted in H.G.’s sturdy iron fists. Nails dug in prompting a gasp.

H.G. wasn’t just wrestling with Myka’s arms, she was wrestling with her pity and her all-consuming need to save a broken woman. Yet she knew how determined a woman like Myka was. She knew when a goal was made it would be set after with integrity, with intelligence, and with passion. Through an unspoken demand, H.G. was trying and failing to push away the bucking heart of the professor.

“You have to go!” H.G. snarled. “I can’t have you around me!” She even winced at the way the command sounded in her mouth. Sending poor, dear Myka away like she were a stray dog prohibited by her apartment complex. Her next words were barely caught by her own ears. “Especially now.”

“That is not up to you!” Myka shouted back.

“I can’t go back.”

“Yes, you can.”

Her jaw muscles relaxed. Clenched teeth eased off its grinding. “Myka,” pleaded H.G. softly, one last time. “Please.”

Wrists still secured, Myka pressed her body close enough that her breath would warm the woman’s face. “Stop playing the martyr, Helena. It doesn’t become you.”

“I don’t want you.” H.G. tried poison but it only worked on herself. If she was trying to be selfish, Myka wasn’t hearing it. She wasn’t even listening. “I don’t want you here.” H.G.’s grip was weakening, the toxin of her own making spreading through her system.

“I will not let you do this to yourself, or to Christina. Have you thought about her at all? And how this pity game would affect her? Have you considered me and how I might feel?”

“I can’t not think of you even if I make the attempt. That is why I’m doing this.”

“You are selfish, Helena, and you need to be reminded how your actions hurt others.”

Myka’s hand was tight and warm in her own as it tugged her towards the exit. “What are you doing?”

In the darkest corner of the chamber a hidden egress became visible. They scaled the stairway until their boots meet grass and their lungs breathed fresh air. H.G., blinking under the afternoon sun, ripped her hand away when they were but a few feet from Lallement’s manor.

“Myka! Answer me!”

Without replying, the professor dug into her back pocket and came out with her cell phone. She tapped it a few times before handing it over to H.G. “You have five seconds until your daughter picks up. I suggest you think fast as to how you’re going to explain to her why her mother isn’t coming home.”

“Are you out of your bloody mind?!” H.G. practically dived for the phone, making frantic efforts to end the call.

Myka couldn’t help the tug at her lips as her plan’s performance unraveled just as expected. “Isn’t that something I should be asking you?” She asked seriously. “Ever since we met I’ve become familiar with your careless need to think after the fact. You are reckless, Helena. You speak without cause, you act without weighing the costs… It’s unexpected and exciting, I will admit, but it’s also the only thing about you that scares me because it means you blindly throwing yourself into oncoming danger.

“Actions have consequences. The rasher the action the more severe the result. There are people in your life that care what happens to you. They care about what you say, how you act, and what delusion you are suffering from. So get off your cross and come back down to Earth. Sometimes, _sometimes_ , Helena, the hardest of hearts needs to be protected by the most fragile, not the other way around.

“So when you say you aren’t coming back with me you better mean it next time. If you really think you are such a danger to me and your daughter – the only people in your life who know who you are – then say so now,” Myka finished with an arm wave.

_If you don’t want me then make me believe it._

“And if my threats withstand?”

Myka was about to say something, but paused at the unexpected reply. Her mouth opened and closed. “It doesn’t matter,” she floundered, her head tipped to the one shoulder shrug. “I’d drag you kicking and cussing to South Dakota anyway.” Green eyes squinted as she struggled to catch up with her own declaration.

“Charming,” H.G. muttered. Her eyes were slits but her mouth was smirking.

“So? What’s it going to be?”

H.G. sucked at her bottom lip, eyes dropping to ground in thought. From inside her jacket pockets, fingers drummed against her thighs. She searched through the dewy blades of grass taking a page out of the Book of Bering. She weighed her options and peered down each road a choice would pave. She imaged a scale and a decision resting on each one. Finally, after adequate consideration she determined how either side would affect her future as well as that of the people she loved.

H.G.’s chin rose. She met Myka’s eyes.

“I knew you would,” the professor gathered with a grateful smile. A breath she wasn’t aware she was holding went out in a little sigh.

H.G. shared an equally proud grin. “And I know that you would think you knew.”

Myka’s head tilted back as she laughed with gusto. H.G. stared, grinning, unable to pry her eyes from the endearing display.

“You are remarkably pleased with yourself, aren’t you?” H.G. asked, lobbing the phone back.

“She wouldn’t have answered anyway. It’s 11am there and Artie probably has her banging out Balakirev on the piano.”

H.G.’s nose scrunched in repulsion. “I don’t even know you,” she quipped indignantly.

Myka chuckled, her eyes sparkling like rare treasure in the sunlight.

“Using my daughter was not the honorable route to change my mind.”

“When did you start caring about honor?”

“Since you used my daughter to change my mind.”

“So it worked?”

H.G. wasn’t charmed by the professor’s proud grin. No, not at all.

“Unequivocally, darling.”

In an unspoken agreement they walked side by side back to the manor entrance. Each kept their hands buried in the depths of their pockets. Each pair of eyes followed in the direction of a flock of birds, a particular beautiful patch of garden, or the provincial design of chateau arches. Each smiled for no reason but the fact that they could.

“Have you ever wanted children of your own?” H.G. asked on a whim. She already knew the professor’s love (or lack thereof) for her students.

“No,” her lips pursed before splitting into a smile which emitted a giggle, “but if I knew my child would turn out like Christina then yes, there would be no doubt in my mind.”

H.G.’s next stride placed her at a closer proximity, a shoulder brushing with Myka’s. “It is more challenging than you might think.”

“Is that supposed to comfort me?”

“Not at all,” H.G. replied matter-of-factly. “It is supposed to terrify you.” She laughed openly and happily to the blue sky. In some ways motherhood felt like a harbored secret, a treasure that had its advantages and its disadvantages. Keeping secret the tricks of the trade was like being a member of an exclusive club, but lately H.G. longed to share it with someone.

“You are an amazing mother to Christina. She is lucky to have you in her life.”

“She is lucky to have you as well,” H.G. added pointedly.

“You raised her well. She is wonderful,” Myka explains naturally. She frowns, then, disappointed that there was literally no word in the English language to describe the magnitude of how she felt towards the young girl. “I really like her.”

_I really love her._

It was a surprise to both when H.G. took her hand and delved their fingers together. There was no practiced manner to it. There was no pause or protest. Not even a single awkward twitch. It felt like they had been doing it forever. It so much of a surprise that their hands held and their hearts jumped behind their cages.

“I read somewhere… in a book,” emphasized a sparkling eyed H.G., “that every good woman is, by nature, a mother.”

“This wouldn’t be one of those stuffy Victorian books filled with conventionally one-dimensional women now would it?”

“It was a book,” stood the assertion, “and it is a veiled compliment, darling.” H.G. throat lavished forth her signature chuckle, the one that made it seem like she knew something the universe didn’t. “Please accept it.”

Myka did with a shy smile. They walked in companionable silence.

“There you guys are!” Pete exclaimed.

The agent and his ex-FBI partner met them at the graveled entrance. They both wore an odd combination of disbelief and contentment.

“We managed to capture two of Lallement’s men,” Steve informed, “and question them for information.”

“Well, the missing piece of the Rosetta Stone was destroyed in a struggle,” Myka said, casting a furrowed glance to H.G. who chewed her lip in silence. “Did you ask them about the artifact? Is it still out there?”

“Yeah, we asked them about that.” Hands planted to his hips, Pete looked to Steve and then back to the women agents. Drawing in a deep breath, he held it in suspense before coming out with it. “You won’t _believe_ this.”

* * *

The land of inhospitable sands and persistent history had attracted the attention of archaeologists from all across the globe. It tested their physicality and their will, and challenged everything they might have known about ancient civilization. It would continue to draw in adventurers, scholars, geologists, grave robbers, dignitaries, soldiers, knights, eccentrics, and novelists until every last relic was pulled from the sands. The last treasure of Egypt… the idea was incomprehensible considering the landscape. Naturally formed sinkholes proved fatal to scuba investigation. Heavy rains eroded rock structures dating back thousands of years. Dust storms called khamsins could last up to 50 days and, with enough velocity, sweep large quantities of dust and sand over anything that gleamed.

That said, there would always be some historically relevant artifact buried below. Finding it became an obsession amongst the world’s explorers. An obsession so dangerous, so wondrous it was known as Egyptomania. Egypt would always be a beacon to the knowledge seeking. Myka Bering was no exception.

“I just can’t believe I’m here!”

Led by the nose to the invisible pearl of wisdom, Myka walked through the funeral banquet hall of the catacombs in an aimless pattern, clutching the stack of books and papers to her chest. She stumbled a few times but never once tore her eyes from her surroundings. To a stranger, she could have been pegged as a bespectacled, harebrained professor concerned with 2,000 year old papyrus and dead people.

But that was exactly what she was. Shamelessly, she was every bit the doctor of philosophy she appeared to be and just as indifferent to how people judged her as such. Myka was too wrapped up in the splendor to hear the sneers of “typical tourist,” the worried glances from her companions, or the obstacles before her feet.

Pete and Steve’s interrogation of Lallement’s men found that the wealthy sociopath had been holding out on them. He had told Myka and H.G. that the Rosetta Stone was still lost in the world when it was not – at least, not to him. Before his demise, Lewis Webb had given up the location of the artifact. It was revealed under duress, of course, so no one could know if what he spoke rang true or he just wanted the pain to stop. The information shared with the two agents was a ruse to throw the team off. Lallement knew where the stone was the whole time and tricked them.

“So what location did Lewis give up?” Myka had asked.

Steve replied, “Egypt.”

“Yeah,” Pete rolled his eyes, unimpressed, “ _that_ narrows it down.”

“Considering it could be anywhere on the planet,” H.G. said, “Egypt does reduce the field a bit.”

Going on unreliable witness testimony and with Myka’s stack of research in tow, the team purchased four economy seats on the first flight to Alexandria (courtesy of a low Warehouse budget). Artie was the hardest to sell on the information. According to his years of experience there was “no conceivable way” the stone had been collecting dust this whole time in “Egypt,” he spat into the receiver crossly. It had crossed too many borders and oceans and been handled in the most foreign of hands that the likeliest place it resided was the most probable. According to Artie, Egypt was not a probable possibility. Not by a long shot.

In yet, there they were in the great metropolitan city of Alexandria with nothing but false hope, spotty research, and their boss’ gruff consent. Alexandria, once the gate between the Eastern and Western Worlds. Alexandria, the intellectual powerhouse and epicenter for debate among the greatest philosophers man had seen. If wisdom was power, the ancient city of Alexandria would have been the world’s most influential city.

Out of the four, Myka was the most optimistic. She was knowledgeable of the Ptolemaic Kingdom as well as Roman Egyptian history which made her a reliable consultant to track down the artifact. H.G. was their resident tour guide and McDonald’s GPS extraordinaire (much to Pete’s relief). The Englishwoman, having traveled through much of Europe, Asia, and parts of the Middle East as a rebellious young adult, knew all the hotspots in Alexandria and Cairo, not to mention where not to go in the dead of night without a companion. Pete was the average skeptic and whiner of the bunch. Between his complaining about not stopping for a ‘McFalafel’ and consistently reminding them of Artie’s doubts, he was, for the most part, a willing team member. And poor Steve Jinks, the greenest of the Warehouse agents, just went with the flow.

Myka tripped yet again, but just seemed to walk faster, spurred on by the endless engravings in the wall. The Catacombs of Kom el Shoqafa is not only a famous archaeological site but one of the Seven Wonders of the Middle Ages. Tourists were drawn to this underground site in Alexandria to behold the merging of Roman, Greek, and Egyptian culture. Statues were crafted with the head of a male Greek and the body of an Egyptian in the standard one foot forward, stiff posture style. Even a sculpture of the falcon-headed god Horus was depicted in Roman military attire. Cut into solid rock, the catacombs consisted of three levels which contained a circular staircase, coffins, carved recesses, sculptures, pillars, and glyphs carved into every surface.

Myka laughed, her smile growing wide enough for cheeks to sting. She was consumed with excitement. It was pure history at her fingertips, and she was drawn in like a lost ship towards a lighthouse, much like the majesty of Alexandria’s Seven Wonder of the Ancient World.

If Myka was consumed with excitement, H.G. was bewitched. She wanted to kiss Myka so badly it struck a pain in every molecule of her body. She had never seen the professor exude such happiness. Since burrowing through couch forts at six-years-old it was a dream of Myka’s to explore the ruins and submerged palaces of the desert land. H.G. had been through quite a number of those endless tirades wherein the professor revealed her closeted Egyptomaniac side.

If being on the receiving end of those rants had been enchanting, witnessing the dream come alive was an experience forever ingrained in her memory, even if the dream was second-hand. Seeing that beaming face and hearing that bellowing laugh felt like nirvana, and H.G. wanted to know what it tasted like, how it tickled and sang against her lips. She wanted to inhale enough of it till it swirled, danced, and merged with her life force.

H.G. saw Myka bump through tourists without eye contact or so much as an ‘excuse me.’ A curly strand of brunette come loose from the poorly knotted bun with every turn of her head. H.G. chuckled, trying to keep up. God, did she want to kiss that delighted mouth.

“Do you have a destination in mind,” H.G. drawled happily, “or are you set on wearing out the floor?”

“I… I-It’s just so amazing!” stuttered the professor, eyes growing behind her reading glasses. Her aimless pacing eventually stopped and she threw up her hands in a manner of blissful frustration. “I don’t know where to begin!”

“It is captivatingly stunning, isn’t it?” H.G. asked rhetorically, eyes never leaving the green irises of the professor. If there was ever cause to break the eye contact it was how perspiration glowed in the fire light. From her studiously wrinkled forehead to her upper lip, the salty stuff sparkled like pinpricks. Yet nothing could enslave H.G.’s attention and dry her mouth to Sahara-level aridness like the bend of Myka’s neck. Her fingers tingled to reach out and draw down its golden sheen. Her imagination grew to support the hypothesis of what hollow the sweat would gather in and which canal it trickled down.

Captivatingly stunning was hardly the appropriate description.

_Quite a seduction, really._

The question was posed a second time, Myka’s forehead bunching further in worry.

“What?” H.G. shook the sluggish expression from her face.

“Have you been here before?”

“Oh,” H.G. breathed out a lengthy sigh. Though the recurrent tightening in her loins abated, the heat failed to leave her cheeks. “I don’t think so.” She frowned as the memory escaped her. “My recollection of Alexandria is quite hazy. I was 19 the last time I visited. The only cares of a ne'er-do-well 19-year-old are cheap bars, the most smashing discothèques, and, of course, an easy lay.”

Myka jaw dropped an inch before snapping it shut. “Y-you keep in contact with these guys?” she inquired, blinking erratically.

“Whoever said they were all men?”

If H.G. only had a camera… The look on Myka’s face was beyond comical. Add to that the bookish spectacles and H.G. had herself sufficient blackmail material (or a dog-eared photo that took up permanent residence in her wallet). But, alas, no camera.

Myka swallowed audibly. She had a prickling sense that H.G.’s preference in sexual partners was not new information. H.G. had always been free spirited in talking social politics and about both of their schools’ involvement in various Chicago LGBT festivals. In addition, there were the casual touches that hinted a deeper meaning and lingering glances that could be described as smoldering. And however much H.G. might enjoy the company of a beautiful woman, it occurred to Myka that never in their time together had H.G.’s attention strayed, not at Frank’s Café, nor to the smiling flight attendants on the flight to London, or even the caravan of bikini-clad tourists of Alexandria pointed out by Pete.

There was also that ‘almost kiss’ in H.G.’s hotel room in London. There was also the way H.G. was looking at her then that drew Myka’s hand to the back of her neck and turned her cheek which flamed under the gaze.

_I’m being seduced by a British adventuress in the Catacombs of Kom el Shoqafa._

_Claudia is never going to believe this one._

Pete and Steve finally caught up to the pair, totally oblivious to having interrupted the air between them. Not even the distinguished expert in ‘Bering and Wells subtext detection,’ Pete Lattimer, caught H.G.’s expression which could have led to her taking Myka against a stone relief right then and there (if they had not been so rudely interrupted, that was). At the shuffles of feet and loud smacking of lips around a ‘McFalafel’ (finally), H.G.’s guise slipped as soon as it sparked to life, ergo Pete’s ignorance of a missed opportunity.

“Oo gash ged anwhersh?”

“Pardon?” the women asked in unison.

Pete’s hand went up to gesture them for patience as he swallowed his precious falafel. He cleared his throat and patted his belly. “Mm, Egyptians knew what they were doing when they decided to pair fried chickpea patties with special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions between a not-so-sesame seed pita.”

He made a little gasp when he spotted some remnant sauce lingering on his fingers and went to lick it up. Myka’s face, decked with a downturned and disgusted mouth, drew slowly back on her neck, but this wasn’t noticed until the seventh digit was cleaned. He froze, finger still between his lips. “Om, yeah that’s right. You guys get anywhere?” he asked finally.

Steve rolled his eyes.

“I was just looking for the appropriate cartouche,” explained Myka.

_Until Helena started doing that… that… sexy staring…_

She squinted, wracking her brain to find the right word. “…Thing!” she exclaimed aloud.

The team winced to the resonating echo before staring at her, wondering if she drank from the tap.

“Cartouche thing,” Pete repeated, narrowing his eyes and then nodded. “Very eloquently put, Doctor.” He slapped her back in friendly recompense.

Half horrified, half exasperated, the professor simply gave a firm nod back. She pressed her books tighter to her chest and resumed the search.

Her heart beat a little faster as she closed in on the prize. Drawing the frames higher on her nose, Myka’s face scrunched so close to the wall her breath wafted up dust. She deciphered the hieroglyphs with a keen eye and brushed grime from the occasionally incomprehensible pictograph. Every once and a while she would page through a book or finger through papers until she found the information key to unlocking the ancient language before her.

“Is that the ‘cartouche thing’?” asked Pete, squinting next to her. He examined it for a grand total of five seconds before glancing to her. He had on the most conflicting expression of boredom and insight. He was trying so hard.

To Myka, he looked constipated. “Are you okay? You don’t look good.”

“What? Yeah. This is just my face.”

“Myka,” H.G. called from across the banquet hall, “come here. I think this will interest you.”

The professor approached the engravings and peered where H.G. was pointing. It was a horizontal oriented cartouche and inside it where symbols. Each character stood for a letter of the alphabet and together they formed a name.

“Oh my god.”

“More like, ‘oh my gods,’” Steve said.

“This is…” Myka gaped, finger wagging at the inscription.

H.G. gathered where the professor was going with her fascination. “Indeed.”

“The stool, the loaf, the lasso, the lion, the mound –“

“The two reeds and the folded cloth.”

“You can read Ancient Egyptian?” Myka asked. Never had the Englishwoman mentioned that in their conversation.

With a tip of her head, H.G. let a smirk reign free. “I am full of surprises, darling.”

“Alright, alright,” Pete griped with a roll of his eyes, “what does it say?!”

“It’s Ptolemy Epiphanes, the fifth ruler of the Ptolemaic dynasty.” Myka read on until she found what she was looking for. “And according to this inscription we now know the exact location where the Rosetta Stone was crafted.”

Steve, wholly impressed by the woman’s expertise, gawked before the foreign language. “Really? It says that?”

“Truly,” H.G. responded, her finger following along with her eyes as she read the glyphs herself.

“Well, why hasn’t anyone before us used this information to find the stone?”

“Because according to public knowledge it is already found,” Myka supplied to the ex-FBI agent. “There’s no reason to hunt for the location if the stone is on display at a museum.”

Pete pointed with his finger, eyes narrowing. “Which it isn’t.”

“You remembered,” Myka applauded.

“I listen.”

“In extreme cases. Anyway,” Myka said over Pete’s protest, “even if the secret got out no one would think to search the place where it was manufactured. The priority would be where it was found.”

“Why wouldn’t we do the same?” Steve asked tentatively.

“Because the town of Rashid itself is a museum that attracts tourists from around the world. Trust me, it’s not there.”

“Yeah,” Pete groaned, “but how do you know it’s not there?”

Myka paused. How did she know, indeed. Even if her research wasn’t tried and true she knew her teammates would give her the benefit of the doubt. What worried Myka was her worldly inexperience putting these good people in harm’s way.

The professor raised her chin and answered, “Intuition and years of tireless research.”

“Troves have been discovered on less,” H.G. provided with a shrug and a glint of faith in her eyes.

She believed even before Myka did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Catacombs of Kom el Shoqafa is an actual archaeological site, however the presence of Ptolemy V’s cartouche is fictional. The Rosetta Stone was sanctioned three centuries prior to the catacombs' construction, so there would be no possible trace of Ptolemy V there. However, for plot’s sake I had to cut corners. I didn’t want to change the location to suit the time period because Kom el Shoqafa is so unique to Alexandria which is mere miles from Rashid.


	13. Chapter 13

Aswan was located along the upper reaches of the Nile River. It was once a stone quarry in ancient times and produced red, grey, and black granite. All materials mined from this site were used to create a variety of structures including the three obelisks (known as “Cleopatra’s Needles”) found in London, Paris, and New York, and many burial chambers, sarcophagi, and columns in the pyramids of Khufu, Khafre, and Menkaure at Giza.

The team stood in a line on a hill ridge overlooking the temple. It had been an arduous ride from Alexandria, hot and bumpy. And it only got hotter. Their t-shirts and blouses stuck uncomfortably to their skin, their feet ached, eyes became sore through squinting into blazing light, and their hopes were slowly dwindling with the setting sun.

Without a word they trudged down the stony ridge, dust swirling in their wake. The temple came further into view. The structure was carved directly into the rocky hill with its doorless entrance facing the west bank of the Nile as if welcoming a nomadic party. It didn’t take an Egyptologist to conclude that the site had already been upset by tomb robbers, sandstorms, floods, and the inevitability of time. There was no evidence of footprints or previous tenants. It had been abandoned from recorded history and human intervention only to stand as a home for scavengers.

“Okay,” Pete sighed, hands on his hips, “you guys ready to prove the Great Arthur Nielsen wrong? Because it will not be a pretty sight. Not that I’ve had the pleasure of proving him wrong. His hunches are usually right.”

“Ten bucks says it’s not here,” Steve said.

The professor, “Excuse me?”

“Are you betting against, Myka?

Steve’s eyes widened at H.G. who looked like she was about to snap his neck. “I was joking?” He smiled meekly to Myka.

“Twenty dollars says it _is_ here. And another twenty if it is as intact as Dr. Bering claims.”

“Helena…”

“What?” H.G. raised a brow, boldly testing her friend. “Betting against intuition now, are you?”

“Looks like we got ourselves a wager,” Pete called as he saw Steve and H.G. shake hands cordially to their contract. “Nothing like a little friendly competition to keep the mosquitos at bay.” He swiped in front of his face. The buzzing continued.

They switched on their flashlights and proceeded to the entrance.

“Wait,” Pete’s barricaded the dark entryway before Myka could get far, “let me go first.”

She gave him a look.

“There could be a cave in or something. And I’ve got a lot of upper body strength to prevent any incoming collapse… or something.” He shrugged and glanced elsewhere.

Myka smiled shyly as he took the lead, looking all broad shouldered and big brotherly (even if she refused to admit it out loud).

The team made their way through the narrow entrance which led down a staircase. The stairs ended into darkness, so they leveled the beams of their flashlights. It was another narrow corridor with low, arched ceilings and decaying walls. The stone under their feet was ground into a thin powder and smelled of stale granite. The team followed the corridor which only went deeper into the hill. The further they traveled the less sense they made of time and direction. It was darker and cooler down there, but also remote and eerily silent.

They walked single file, Pete first followed by Myka, Steve, and H.G. in the rear. To make up for the quiet and the fear it encouraged, Myka educated her team on Aswan and Ancient Egyptian building materials. Others would beg to differ on one detail: Myka did not educate. She babbled endlessly.

“Aswan was a quarry site,” the professor said cheerily, “that produced 80% of the building materials used for obelisks and sculptures in Ancient Egypt. Their stone was a notable resource. Ptolemy V’s decree had the Rosetta stele carved from granodiorite which is an intrusive igneous rock.”

Pete’s flashlight rotated and blinded Myka. “Carved from what of the what now?”

“It’s like granite.”

Pete drew out a long “Ahhh.”

“So, uhh,” Steve started, “you like learning about this stuff, Myka?”

“Mm,” she hummed, seriously contemplating before a nod, “yeah I do. You see, it’s not just about _what_ is being transported from quarry to port, but _how_ materials are transported across a whole desert – could be 500 miles. And keep in mind, these stones weighed up to 175,000 pounds! I mean, take Stonehenge for example. Bluestone rock originated mostly in Wales but ended up 250 miles away in Wiltshire, England. You look at those 25 ton monuments and can’t help but wonder how on earth they got there. If you take these extraordinary feats into consideration you start to realize how superior –“

“Doctor,” groaned Pete, “can we take an intermission? At least to get some popcorn or a soda or even a mallet.”

Myka stopped in her tracks. She positioned the brightest spot of her flashlight on Pete’s face as if he were under interrogation. “You said quarries were ‘awesome.’”

“Yeah, that was, like, ten minutes ago.”

There was a loud, harassed exhale of air from Myka.

H.G.’s laugh echoed all the way through the corridor and up to the exit. She was enjoying this far too much.

Myka pointed the beam, in turn, at the giggling woman. “What are you laughing at?”

H.G. stifled the chuckle with her fingers. “Don’t mind me,” she recovered. “I’m just the reflective student at the back of the room. Carry on.”

Pete grunted with amusement. “Or the student with the crush on the teacher. So cliché,” he said under his breath. “Onwards?”

The team resumed their search and bypassed the split corridors that were caved in for the long, lonely middle one. Myka continued her lecture on Egyptian stone quarries – just to aggravate Pete.

When the corridor finally widened into an open chamber the team split up. They searched high and low through the circular chamber, behind pillars, underneath broken terra cotta pottery, and even between the cracks in the walls.

“Maybe there’s a hidden door someplace?” Steve suggested.

“Oh, yeah!” cried Pete. “Like in _National Treasure_! We should see if there are any familiar markings around here that might be the key to opening a door.”

The place was deserted, scavenged down to every last insignificant piece of stoneware. It was just as frustrating when they found that the chamber had not a single glyph etched into its walls. It was as much alike a nameless, forgotten temple as it was a construction hazard.

“There is nothing of value here,” murmured H.G. She kicked at shard of clay in what could only be described as melancholy.

Myka stared helpless at a wall. It was a blank template for all her hopes and dreams, kind of like the one she had crayoned on in childhood. After growing out of that phase she meant to learn everything there was to learn about forgotten moments in time and the figures that made history happen. She was supposed to uncover something miraculous and bring it back into the world not for wealth or prestige, but to fulfill her imaginings. But the template was blank and terribly empty. It was failure personified.

“I thought…”

“It’s okay, Mykes.” Pete scratched his chin, having a hard time looking at the professor. To see her go from enthusiastic to semi-unresponsive was devastating. The hope just drained from her face. He was hurting for her. “At least we gave it a shot.”

Steve, the agent who always ended a mission, regardless of its outcome, with some sense of accomplishment and serenity, bit his lip and shifted on his feet anxiously. “So that’s it? We came here for nothing?”

“No, not for nothing,” H.G. snapped, glaring a fire into Steve. “Even an unexpected outcome results in some form of enlightenment.” H.G. learned something, at least. And from the downcast eyes and fidgeting of the ring on her finger she wasn’t about to broadcast it in front of the whole team. “Mistakes are the portals to discovery.”

“I was so sure.”

Everyone heard Myka’s whisper and knew it wasn’t intended for their ears. The break in her voice wasn’t meant to be heard, either.

“I think we should leave this place,” Steve remarked suddenly. “It’s starting to creep me out – and I usually like the quiet.”

Steve turned and before he even took two strides for the exit his shoe caught on the ground. His arms flailed as he tripped to an easy, sandy landing.

Pete asked, “You okay, Jinksy?”

“Didn’t I tell you to stop calling me that?” Steve winced and rose to his elbows. “I think I just tripped. Must have been some broken pottery or something.”

A pair of brown eyes never looking so optimistic widened. “Or… something,” gasped H.G. making a beeline for the area at Steve’s feet.

She fell to her knees and made no pause to slip her hands into the ground, fingers wiggling between the millions of miniscule grains. The culprit of Steve’s fall was submerged in a sea of it. Her hands fished around, getting a feel for the edges while scooping out handfuls of sand to create a dry moat around it.

“I could do with some assistance,” sang H.G. She was made beautiful by the smile and sparkling eyes on the object in her grasp.

The team formed a circle around the site and started digging frantically, hearts beating faster, eyes growing to astonishment. Before long the mystery was unearthed.

Myka shot up, mouth hung open and her entire self completely frozen. To anyone who didn’t know her she would have appeared mortified. But her team knew her better. Her friends knew her better and it wasn’t mortification carved into her features. It was pure, untainted admiration. Myka was admiring the true, the one and the only Rosetta Stone.

Myka wasn’t thinking about much in that moment. Really, it didn’t matter what she thought. Written history didn’t matter and neither did human testimony. None of it mattered because there at her feet was something that turned every textbook and account on its head. She was speechless. She was honored. She felt at peace.

The tranquility was interrupted gently. Myka looked down at the hand resting on her thigh and met H.G.’s gaze. The Englishwoman seemed just as speechless, honored, and at peace looking up at the professor.

“This place truly is a temple.”

Myka broke out into a smile and soon a laugh. She couldn’t say, but she knew.

A large portion of the near ton stone was still buried. Its whole lower half was stuck and immovable by human hands.

“The flooding of the Nile must have sunk the stone so deep below the sand it got trapped in the clay underneath.” Myka’s head tilted. “It would have taken years for something this big to get encased in that level of clay, silt, and gravel.”

“It’s been here this whole time,” gasped Pete. He whipped a hand over his face, not believing it.

“The whole time,” Myka agreed.

“Hang on,” Steve raised a hand. “You’re saying that the Rosetta Stone never left Egypt in the first place? That’s what you’re saying, right?”

H.G. turned to Myka with similar concern.

“General Menou was still governor at the time of the stone’s supposed transfer to Great Britain. The war was still raging in 1801 until British and Ottoman forces pushed through French lines, finally ending the conflict. By all accounts, Menou was still in possession of the stone – which was, by rights, his property. And with France’s defeat he had a choice to make. According to your average textbooks, he surrendered the stone to the British. That explains why millions of tourists pilgrimage to the British Museum and pay homage to a fake spectacle.

“He couldn’t take it with him back to France; the Rosetta Stone had already gained widespread attention in academia and its disappearance would have sparked suspicion.” Myka bit her lip, trying to put herself in the general’s position. What would she do with a priceless artifact in the midst of conflict? “Menou would have either had to leave it behind for the British to find or return it back to its place of origin – hiding it, essentially.”

“One man deciding the fate of such historical importance,” H.G. mulled over. Her brow rose. “Resonates a sort of injustice, if you were to ask me.”

“Who makes sound decisions during war?” Myka argued. “But no,” she murmured, blinking faintly, “I think Menou knew exactly what he had to do. The tests and copies Napoleon ordered made it ideal for a fake to be swapped in and left to British hands. And there was so much chaos during the invasion of Alexandria that it was the perfect moment to perform the trick. Returning the stone to its home was the right course of action.”

“Really?” Pete’s tone peaked incredulously. “But aren’t scholars all about preserving historical documents and mummies? You know, carbon dating and lasers and second opinions? I thought as a professor you would want to deck this Menou guy for keeping the _Rosetta Stone_ from the public.”

“It’s not like it belongs to me,” Myka responded with a one shoulder shrug. “Technically it doesn’t belong to the world, either. It originated and was discovered in Egypt, so the stone is the rightful property of the Egyptian people.”

“Not Menou and his family line?” Steve inquired. “What happened to ‘finder’s keepers?’”

A dark cloud passed over H.G.’s face. Her mouth was a grim line. “I don’t think Lallement is in a capacity to accept any temporal possessions.”

“But this changes things, doesn’t it?” asked Pete. He rose to his feet with purpose, squaring his shoulders with a sense of justice rising from within. “Don’t forget, Artie’s research goes back all the way to when it was discovered. This thing is an artifact. If it belongs anywhere it is in the Warehouse.”

“Now wait just a minute,” H.G. challenged, her shoulders thrown back as Pete had done. “This _artifact_ is more than a mere treasure; it is a superior teaching device. Do you know how many would benefit from this? The sheer number of languages and dialects it possesses could open the minds of the most enlightened. If it belongs to anyone it belongs to the academic community, not a motley crew of agents from Area 51!”

“Okay, first of all, the Warehouse is in no way associated with that hoax of a place. Second, this artifact may help you teachers but it can also kill. Have you learned nothing from this case? You and Myka could have died down there in Lallement’s evil lair.”

Indeed, she did remember. How could she forget Myka’s screams? Somehow, unfortunately, the image of her clutching her head in excruciating pain would stay with H.G. till the end of time.

“Pete has a point.” The knuckles of Steve’s hand scratched at his chin. H.G. threw a murderous look at him. “Well, he does.”

“You guys forget that this is a national treasure,” Myka jumped in. “Question ownership all you want, Egypt is, by all truths, the sole owner of the Rosetta Stone. It was constructed in this very chamber, made from the rocks beneath our very feet, and discovered in the sands of this country. The stone’s power, intellectual and supernatural, rests in the hands of this nation’s people. It may be pertinent to world history, but it is a history that originated within these borders. I can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for Menou to leave this behind. He would rather leave it buried in the sands than in the hands of the British.” Myka jerked her head in her friend’s direction, muttering, “No offense.”

The Englishwoman smirked, chin dipping. “None taken.”

“In the end, his choice was a valiant one,” continued the professor. “The artifact is made entirely from basalt; what better home for it than the earth it was cast from?”

“The Rosetta Stone returned to whence it came.” H.G. considered it for a moment before shrugging. “There is poetry in that.”

Pete groaned, clutching the sides of his head in frustration. “Guys, I can’t believe I’m being the adult here. Like I said: This. Is. An. Artifact. It can destroy lives. It can make you insane. It even corrupts the strongest of wills. Trust me, I’ve seen it happen plenty.” He sighed, shaking his head sadly. His eyes met the subject of their debate and gestured towards it with his hands. “Agents have died protecting the world from artifacts just like this one. We can’t begin to understand the downside of one this big. Who knows, it could be more powerful than the Warehouse can handle. But in my experience, and based on my gut, I’m telling you it’s the safest place. No museums, no schools, and no abandoned temples. It has to stay with the Warehouse.”

“So the world can never know?” Steve asked. “The one on display at the British Museum will always be considered the real thing?”

“It’s best for everyone.”

The chamber went silent. They all stared down at the Rosetta Stone, each with their own opinion, each with a proposed future for it.

“So?” Pete prodded.

There was an uncomfortable silence, but the agents nodded in accord. It was inevitable, really. It was always going to be the Warehouse. They just couldn’t see behind their own personal affinity for the treasure. When one discovered such an impossible thing, something that could change history, it made one ponder the ramifications of the self. Money, knowledge, power, patriotism. Discovery always came with a sense of privilege. Lallement had indeed been a deeply fanatical soul, but his madness did not revoke his birthright. Discovery also came with responsibility and that was, in the end, motivation for the team’s shared agreement.

H.G. sighed. “I suppose it was always destined to end up on a shelf in the middle of a geographical nowhere.”

“Better collecting dust on a shelf than in the hands of the next military dictator,” Pete pointed out. From his back pocket he procured the Farnsworth. “I think it’s time to fill the boss in. Better tell him to sit down first,” he cracked with a chuckle.

There was no signal there, of course, so he retreated out of the depths of the temple. The rest of the agents smiled to the faint echo of his preparation speech which included the excerpt, “I told you so!” and something along the lines of opening a falafel joint in Univille.

H.G. folded her arms, index finger tapping in time with a cheery tone only her ears could detect.

“I am quite positive that someone owes me forty dollars.”

Steve rolled his eyes as her smile grew mischievous. With a great exhale he dug deep into his pockets. He even had to count every bill before the brown, prideful eyes of a champion gambler. It was too bad, really. Those twenty dollars would have been put to better use towards a hostel shower.

“Don’t forget the extra twenty,” H.G. added happily and making a careful count of the bills, “for it being in adequate condition, understandably.”

Correction, _forty_ dollars would have been more worthy of a shower.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Agent Jinks.”

Steve’s chin met his shoulder as he muttered to Myka, “That is the first and last time I bet against you.”

H.G. picked up on that, but after settling their little business transaction she was left smiling like a winner who was forty dollars richer.

It was the little things.

With his tail set firmly between legs, Steve caught up to Pete, leaving Myka to shout after him to tell Artie something for her. Her words were lost in the temple’s confines, and so it turned out that they became its only inhabitants, the professor a surly sight and the Englishwoman in a frightfully amused state of mind.

“It’s only fair I get half the winnings.”

“Oh, is it now?”

H.G. retreated back a step as Myka seized one forward.

“Yes,” the professor replied. Her eyes were daggers but the teasing grin demolished any hope of putting on a strong front.

“I never did share well with others.” H.G. clamped down on the grin, thinning her lips into a strict line.

“ _Try_.”

Another step forward, another back. Myka was so cute when she asserted authority. It would be scary if it weren’t so cute, if the eyes weren’t narrowed quite so much or her mouth wasn’t twitching so laterally. H.G. could only imagine how feeble those undergrads looked under grim effort.

“I was the mastermind of this operation. Those twenty dollars are mine.”

“But if it were not for me you and our friends would be riding camels till you hit the Red Sea,” H.G. pointed out with a smug tongue.

Myka bit her lower lip, but the chuckle was inevitable. She couldn’t help it in the presence of that wicked, cocksure smile. God, did it drive her mad.

Myka advanced slowly, H.G. retreated even slower. Soon there would be no escape. H.G. was okay with that. In fact, she was counting on it.

Arriving in H.G.’s personal space, Myka tipped her head and closed her eyes for a minute. She breathed in the scent of their sweat, the salt of the Nile, and the faint undertones of marmalade. She breathed deeply, peacefully, and then sighed. It was so pleasant, it took seconds. Myka’s eyes opened. “We found it.”

“Yes,” H.G.’s eyes agreed with every curve of Myka’s face, the crinkle to her nose, her mouth, and the verses that poured from it, “we did, didn’t we?”

The temple was balmy despite the lack of sun and creepy undertones. Crypts weren’t romantic, not a bit, but then Myka and H.G. were not your typical pair. They were dog tired and dingy. Instead of desiring a shower or a bite to eat the first thing on their minds was staring. Staring and breathing the same 100 year old dust particles. Myka looked at the beautiful curves and notes of H.G.’s face, looking and breathing. H.G. was doing the same and she _knew_.

H.G. took hold of Myka’s arms and leaned in. Myka saw the look in her eyes and knew before it even happened that she intended to kiss her. Finally.

Myka blinked suddenly, not a flutter but a rapid blinking that verged on clarity. Her head turned to the side just as it was about to happen.

H.G.’s advance was terminated. The breath in her lungs was suspended. Just what she was waiting for was not known. Maybe it would never come to pass. The very misfortune clamped around H.G.’s heart, sucking every last passion, hope, every last crooked smile into a melting pot of oblivion.

Myka’s heart was racing. Her palms were damp. She felt boxed in. She was experiencing all the classic signs of panic, so the practical part of her spurred a retreat to turn her back.

H.G. fought the urge to call her name. It died in her throat, perhaps because something else had closed it to convulsing limits. Instead, H.G. stared at her back and swallowed over the lump repeatedly. She knew all too well why Myka pulled away. Understanding why was almost as painful as not kissing her.

Myka liked questions. As a scientist, H.G. thrived on them. It was one of the quirks that made them so compatible. What was confusing for the both of them were the questions Myka was asking herself as her back was turned. She was at a loss for understanding the thing between them and why it was happening. Why now? Why her? Why me? Why us?

H.G. had made it worse. The attempt to broach a new level of affection was premature. For as bright a thinker as H.G., she never thought to offer Myka the answers she needed, the assurance that this thing between them was real and lasting and not just a product of excitement and historical discovery. In order for Myka to let her in, H.G. needed to talk to her. Myka was in need of words unfolded, not physical contact. The feelings that had been growing between them were awe inspiring and ignited a pleasant aching in their hearts, but without words all the feelings had accomplished was a hole burning through their patience. Myka was so smart and so fragile. She deserved nothing less than an explanation.

Myka’s back was only turned for a few seconds, the time it took for H.G. to mentally berate her actions (those alike to teenage boy). But when a curly head of hair rose from its bow it faced the Englishwoman without doubt or fear, and soon H.G.’s inner battle slipped. The eyes were different, they were still their stunning forest green, but with an added spirit of… something.

A single brow of H.G.’s furrowed at the puzzle. Her lips parted a touch. It was now her turn for a heart race. Every conscientious thought slipped through her grasp. That scolding she gave herself just seconds ago didn’t seem to matter much when Myka was looking at her… like that. She failed to recall the ‘explanation plan.’ She forgot… she forgot…

_Bollocks._

“I should have done this a long time ago.”

Breathless, body humming, Myka asked, “Done what?”

H.G. was already moving. Arms outstretched, hands forming a gentle cup like they were about to cradle the face of an angel, she moved. “This.”

Myka felt the hands on her face and the mouth on her lips. The force of the kiss was desperate and loving, passionate and tender. The kiss was aggressive as it was gentle. Two sides of the same coin, H.G. put everything into it. She could be vicious and placid all at the same time, all in one kiss. Sting of teeth then a soothing tongue, jaw and lips working together slow then fast. They were different modes of device but equal in concept. The concept, in this case, just took Myka’s breath away in one fell swoop and a brush of lips.

They’re arms wrapped around each other as the professor returned the contact. It was so mutually accepted that it lasted longer than time would care to admit.

“I love you,” murmured H.G., inches from Myka’s astonished, yet serene face. “I should have told you…” her head turned from side to side, “I was a complete prat, but then you have a tendency to leave me quite absurd. I wouldn’t allow anyone else to do that. I wouldn’t want to feel so smitten that I lose my bearings. Not with anyone else but you. You keep me interesting, Myka, and I don’t want to feel that with anyone else. As long as I draw breath I will always love you.”

“Yes,” Myka sighed, letting her cheek fall into a stroking hand, “you are interesting.” Smiling, she tilted her head and buried her face in the woman’s neck, her scent, her love. “And absurd.” Her hands clutched at H.G.’s shoulders as they jumped to a chortle. “And the best friend I could ever ask for,” she whispered under H.G.’s ear. There was no room or right for pause, so she held on and let it go finally. “It’s why I love you so much.”

There was a gasp and a hitch in breath. Myka felt all ten fingertips press into her back, the hands splayed and driving them closer, impossibly closer for _more_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Mistakes are the portals of discovery” is a quote I borrowed from James Joyce. Thanks JJ!
> 
> Also, it is truly an ongoing debate over who should hold ownership over the Rosetta Stone: Britain or Egypt. Many consider the Stone to be “stolen goods” due to little record of the Egyptians being consulted on its seizure. Essentially, that is a matter of colonial dispute. To others the Stone is considered a shared piece of human history that should stay where it has been on display in the British Museum for over 200 years.


	14. Chapter 14

“I think it’s time I give this back.”

Though clearly not willing to part with it, Myka dropped the locket in the outstretched palm.

“Why now?”

Myka bit her lip. “Because I know I have you and Christina. I don’t need a locket to remind me of that.”

“But it eases your anxiety. I have seen this hand polish it to a shine when you think I’m not looking.”

“I’m no longer anxious.” Myka leaned in, eyes drawing down. A flush rose to her cheeks and her stare diverted as if timidity had taken a hold. Her one shoulder shrugged. “Well, at least, not the kind of anxious that can’t be cured by the real thing.”

“And what, pray tell, exemplifies the real thing?”

Myka swallowed. Her heart jumped. “I’m looking at it,” she whispered dryly.

H.G. licked the thing being held under a gaze of hooded eyes. It was an exacting stare filled by intent but with the added flickering of apprehension. It was an attractive anxiety H.G. was becoming familiar with and hoped one she had not seen the last of. Presently, it was an anxiety she was delighted to cure.

“I make you anxious.” H.G. smiled.

“Helena…”

Myka’s arm was grasped and returned to its place well over the armrest and into her seatmate’s area. H.G. noted the hand’s stiffness and allowed it room to thread its fingers through hers when they were ready.

H.G. hummed softly as she watched Myka’s hand join with hers. “You know I wouldn’t let you go without it,” H.G. said.

“The locket?”

H.G. pursed her lips to make it authentic. Contemplation was her forte but so was seduction. Playing both hands (sometimes in the _literal_ sense) was a strategy H.G. had perfected. Myka going weak in the knees happened to be one of myriad reasons why. If foreplay with the professor was exciting, H.G. was eager beyond words to journey further into the mind and body of Myka Bering.

She didn’t even pan around there surroundings before answering. Truly, the flight was sparse and provided little interruption to the pair. In theory, Myka didn’t care about an audience, either. H.G.’s one-track mind seemed to be having a similar effect on her. As they closed in Myka canceled out the noise of the drink cart wheeling along the aisle, the rush of cool wind from an above air fan, and the signs of life going on around them in their cabin. Her anxiety was surrendered for what was between them, which was a distance that was dwindling so agreeable to her liking.

It only took a nip at her bottom lip for Myka to grant entrance. When a tongue sought out hers, Myka knew it wasn’t just the locket H.G. would leave her with. She berated herself for not picking up on the detail earlier. They had been talking of the precious keepsake not minutes earlier, which had somehow fast-tracked to an arena Myka was not keen to share with anyone else but H.G.

Missing details, threads of conversation, or a simple locket were of the kind that nagged a woman like Myka. After all, she was a scholar first, a socialite last. Very last. The Englishwoman had an effect that shut down all her deduction skills. She could blame anyone else, even the culprit; if it were not for the way it made her stomach perform Olympic level gymnastics.

That topsy-turvy, flippy-floppy feeling scared her from the start; probably the moment H.G. boldly stole a forkful of lemon meringue à la subtext. Though having professed profound love for one another, Myka still had reservations. The word ‘relationship’ struck an odd chord. What will happen when they return home? Where was home? Was there a future for them? And what about Christina? Was Myka ready to be a family with them?

The ever-so-perceptive Helena Wells knew when an acquaintance was interested and, therefore, was more experienced in the art of wooing. Myka, well, she was a bit of a tenderfoot in matters of the heart. She was measured in expressing her attraction, so measured and preconceived H.G. had to take matters into her own hands and kiss her in the heat of a decrepit temple. The professor was almost too humble for her own good, leaving H.G. to take up the mantle of reminding her just how priceless she was.

H.G.’s teasing never made her feel less brilliant than she was. At its best, the woman’s powers of persuasion made her feel tongue-tied and a bit doltish, as H.G. had copped to the same. What was more, Myka never felt unsafe with the woman. It was intoxicating in the moment, but Myka didn’t know how long it would last, so her frustrations were put away for later in favor of the lips pressing against hers.

The flavor and wetness… Those lips so full and brazen in the best of ways …

_Oh my god._

H.G. chuckled at the small moan that had slipped into her mouth. “We should slow down,” she suggested, retreating only far enough to get Myka in her sights. “Wouldn’t want to give the passengers a show now, would we?”

Myka gasped. “People were looking?” She twisted in her chair and scanned the cabin with wide eyes. There was no audience, of course. People had better things to do on their social media devices than witness the romance of two lovers. She turned back to a coy smile and a head tipped angelically against the head rest. Those sweet eyes just blinked at her. “I guess we got a little carried away,” Myka said, crossly.

Myka pressed her back into her seat and looked straight ahead, counting the blue colored threads against the grey upholstery chair. She had good vision. And she liked counting.

_1…_

_2…_

_3…_

“It irks you, doesn’t it?” H.G. asked, narrowing her eyes with the playfulness of a Labrador puppy. “When I presume to speak of us in the real world?”

_8…_

_9…_

_10…_

“Do you think we can’t have this in public? That what we felt in London, in France, and in Egypt cannot exist in the realm of daily life?”

_14…_

_15… Wait, what?!_

“We felt that way before London!” Myka’s admission was quick and took some of the breath from her. “Well, I-I mean, at least I did.”

“I was hoping you would correct me,” mused H.G. with a catlike grin. “But you haven’t answered the question, Myka. Can what we feel for one another go beyond a few days in Europe? Because if you don’t think it will – if you don’t want it to – then please declare it now,” H.G. didn’t mean to, but her fingers went out to trail against the skin of Myka’s cheek, “before I fall even further in love with you.”

Myka sighed and shivered. She loved the way it sounded. Even more, she loved how it made her feel. She closed her eyes, the sum total of blue threads dissolving from memory. When she opened them H.G. still had her head resting against the seat. Her face was just a hand span away from Myka, and prized with a patient, loving gaze.

“I’m scared,” Myka whispered. She dared not say any more.

H.G. closed her eyes and nodded. That pumping, fragile organ called a heart plummeted to her gut and would have kept going miles further to splatter against the earth. Then it was all for nothing? No, she wouldn’t think that. She couldn’t. She still had Christina, after all. Her little love would stay with her forever. Until someone came along to capture _her_ heart.

H.G. took a deep breath and let it out. She felt shaky – dizzy almost – and not at all herself. She was set on turning away and looking out the window for the rest of their flight until a gamble took her by the hand. Literally.

“But if I’m going to be scared,” Myka said, her green eyes watery but focused, “I want to be scared with you. I like the way that feels with someone who takes chances and who will throw themselves into danger for me. I know you’ve experienced fear alone.” Myka squeezed the hand and pulled it into her. It was the hand that had soothed eight years’ worth of tummy aches and fevers with the sole help of instinct and a book or two. “Fear is a condition of life and I don’t want us to experience that without each other. We shouldn’t have to. And who says we can’t have what we felt in Europe anywhere else? I like a bit of an adrenaline rush every now and again,” Myka quipped with a sniff and a smile.

“You know me.” H.G.’s brow arched while the corner of her mouth turned up. “Adventure follows me everywhere.”

Myka exhaled, laughing. It was a relief like no other.

* * *

A Warehouse debrief was not at all what Myka and H.G. thought it would be. To the professor, it was less formal than expected. She envisioned a panel of administrators and suits more absorbed in upholding department politics. Rigorous, it was supposed to be akin to the Spanish Inquisition. But it wasn’t. As usual, Myka held her chin high while simultaneously drying her palms on her thighs.

H.G. didn’t prepare herself, and so went in with no expectations or set instructions on how to behave. She never arranged statements prior to monthly teacher reviews, so why would she at the Warehouse? The whole process of assessment was rather appalling. Evaluating a teacher’s value based merely on student performance was beyond uncivilized. As usual, H.G. put on her cool face and sauntered in like who dared question her methods.

“You snagged your first artifact. Good for you.”

Myka shifted in her chair, casting a glance at H.G. The Englishwoman was leant back in her chair with an arm thrown over the back and one leg crossed over her knee. Her lips were pursed and her eyes were glazed over with boredom.

Myka forced her back straight. “Thank you, Artie – I mean, Mr. Nielsen.”

The Warehouse custodian, with foreboding eyebrows and spectacles perched on his nose, grunted in response.

The professor nodded silently. H.G.’s eyes wandered to a sloping neck.

Artie continued to make his inquiry over the general points of their mission. Among the topics discussed during the debrief were Pete’s breaking and entering activities, the flagrant disregard for cover identities, working gloveless through a black market nobleman’s inner sanctum, and, lastly, the enormous room service bill.

Steve Jinks received a thorough grilling and barely scraped by the skin of his teeth. While the team was away Artie had Leena dig up information on the ex-FBI agent, his history with the Bureau, and circumstances of his resignation. Though the background check barely scratched the surface, Artie was willing to take a chance on him. A very slim chance. According to a private exchange with Pete, the agent had shown promising skills in the field. He was smart, centered, and seldom restless in a tight situation. He was also oddly intuitive. Pete also made sure to mention Steve’s ill consideration for making jokes, but Artie took that with a grain of salt. The Warehouse needed more of a dry sense of humor, anyway. In the end, the Regents had the final say-so and possessed far greater techniques for evaluating a potential Warehouse agent.

“And Lallement.” Artie stared at the file in question. “He was taken down in a struggle.”

Myka felt the outside of her pocket, but there was nothing there to fiddle with. There was no change in H.G.’s posture.

“One shot to the chest. I presume it was for reason of self-defense?”

“There was a struggle,” explained Myka. “I was recovering from the artifact’s effects when he attacked Helena.”

“And who eliminated Lallement?”

“I did.”

H.G. turned to the professor who spoke up before her lips even parted. Myka stared straight at Artie, ignoring the rigid change in her friend’s posture. H.G. gripped the back of her own chair, glaring at the woman in the most covert way possible, daring her to meet her eyes.

That was not what they had agreed upon. Before arriving in Univille Myka and H.G. had discussed the consequences of Lallement’s death and the options available to them. It lightened H.G.’s heart that Myka thought of it as their burden. The sharp mind of the professor worked tirelessly to defend her friend, keep her spirits up, and work every angle in getting her off the hook. She was always there to lift a chin and speak reasonably.

But H.G. didn’t want Myka involved. If anyone was claiming responsibility for what happened in France it would be the one who shot Lallement. She borderline demanded that she alone would suffer the consequences if it came to that. Myka wasn’t willing to concede to that so they met each other halfway. The pact stood that no one, not Pete, Steve, or Artie could know what really went down in the Lallement’s chamber. They understood well that H.G. would have to live with her actions for the rest of her days. The sting of memory was punishment enough. The plan was simple: H.G. would attest to gunning down Lallement in self-defense.

Only that’s not how Myka was playing it. That irked H.G. more than anything.

Artie moved on without further questioning. H.G. watched as Myka’s eyes drifted down and to the side, fighting to meet angry brown eyes, but failing in the endeavor. For the rest of the debrief the two woman stewed in the tension growing between them. They offered brief contributions to Artie’s questions, but remained startlingly composed, considering Myka’s broken promise.

At the meeting’s closing Pete took Steve to show him around the Warehouse. Myka shot up from her chair and wasted no time in exiting Artie’s office. Not one for being ignored (or deceived), H.G. made to follow. Something strong clamped onto her arm instead.

“Ms. Wells,” Artie’s voice was as firm as the grip, “we are not finished. Please take a seat?”

“Whatever you have to say to me, Mr. Nielson, can be done quickly and with me standing. I am in a bit of a hurry.”

“I’m sure you are.” He released her, but his brevity never waved. In fact, his expression seemed to intensify. “If I ever find out that you gunned down an unarmed man without cause,” his arm rose, not to strike but to unleash the point of a finger in warning, “I will make it a personal goal to make sure you are disciplined for it.”

H.G. blinked. “Just what are you insinuating? Myka confessed to shooting Lallement. She saved my life.”

While it was true that Myka took responsibility for a deed she hadn’t committed, there was no doubt in H.G.’s mind that if she shattered the noble deed of a woman hell bent on protecting her and revealed the truth to Artie, Myka would be severely cross with her. Though there was a ball and chain ring to it, H.G. would never disrespect a heroic deed. To do so would jeopardize their friendship, not to mention their budding partnership. It had nothing to do with guarding her innocence. It was about faith.

“You see this?” A file waved in front of her. “This is an autopsy report sent on behalf of the National Police. How I acquired it doesn’t matter. What do are its contents. Bullet fragments from a SIG-Sauer were extracted from the left lung. It shredded through his chest causing prolonged death and unimaginable respiratory distress.” He stared hard into her eyes. “Do you know how good a shot Myka is?”

H.G. stared back.

“I already did my research before she even crossed the South Dakota border. She has excellent marksmanship. That bullet may have come from her gun but if she used it she would not have missed. If she was responsible for killing Lallement like she claims, that bullet would have entered his heart. He would have died instantly.”

Unmoving, H.G. continued to fix her eyes on the custodian. She never even glanced at the evidence file.

“A lovely bedtime story,” she spoke in challenge. Her eyes narrowed slightly, while her nostrils flared. She tipped her head to the side, conceding, “Not one I would tell my child, though. She prefers realistic fiction before bedtime.”

“You know, then, what is at stake. Just remember I gave you a chance to come clean. From now on I’m fresh out.”

He slapped the file down on his desk, papers fluttering upon its landing. His sneakers squeaked out of the office and down the Warehouse steps. H.G. was left alone to wallow over a lost chance and threat that would follow her till the end of her days.

* * *

“Myka!”

The door swung open at the woman’s furious entrance, nearly coming off its hinges and crashing to splinters. H.G. rushed into the bed and breakfast, breathing hard, mind racing, and boots stomping the hardwood floors. Every muscle in her body was singing with urgency that she couldn’t tell what she would do when Myka was found. A myriad range of emotions swirled around her like a hurricane. She was anxious to see her daughter again, angry that Myka had betrayed their arrangement, worried that Myka would suffer undo punishment because of it, and heartbroken at the thought of her love running away in order to remedy their state of affairs. There were more feelings but they were so spiraling and stubborn it was like trying to pin storm clouds to earth. But those were mere feelings compared to what she was experiencing in her heart. If Myka ever regretted what happened between them or accused her of pressuring for a desired reaction such as love then… well, H.G. was not in her right mind to finish that thought.

“Myka!” she shouted up the stairway, breathlessly.

An answer was barely waited on before she was flying through a deserted study and a quaint kitchen. Evidence in the form of a percolating coffee machine and three mugs remained untouched and ready at the kitchen counter. A scrap of a chair sounded from the sun room and H.G. was in motion.

“Myka, just what were you th –“

H.G. came to a stop, finding that all this time Myka was not out of ear shot, and neither was her visitor.

“H.G.,” Mrs. Frederic greeted, oddly more affectionate than the Englishwoman had expected or heard, “you’re here. Now we can get on to business.”

Entering the room, H.G. joined the two women. “Business?” she asked, but not before glancing questioningly at Myka. The professor’s face was unreadable, save for her active avoidance in joining eyes.

“A proposition, more like.”

A chime rang out from the kitchen.

“One moment.”

“Mrs. Frederic,” Myka insisted, “you don’t have to…”

“Please, sit. You have already done a great deal more than asked.”

Mrs. Frederic smiled warmly before following the scent of brewed coffee. Myka sat as told, resting an arm on the table while the other stayed on her thigh, fingers drumming silently. She cleared her throat, staring at Leena’s plants. They were all very well taken care of, with the exception of one scrawny ivy which was yellowing at its tips. She made a mental note to inform its owner of the plant’s near demise and suggest a good dose of water.

“Myka.”

The softness in H.G.’s voice snapped Myka out of her trance and brought her attention to the other woman. The warring face of her friend pleaded without so much as a word. The depths of what H.G. must have been feeling were so unreachable to Myka then it almost brought her to tears. It occurred to Myka that there was only so much she could do. No one could change what occurred in that chamber any more than one could rearrange time and space to fit their needs. She could swear on her career that the shot that killed Lallement came from her gun which was in her hand, but it wasn’t Myka alone that would live with it. H.G. would still know who was really responsible and _knowing_ was just as painful as the lie.

Myka’s voice was small and scared. “I didn’t mean to go behind your back.” She kept her eyes on Leena’s sickly ivy. “I don’t know what came over me… I wanted to protect you. There was nothing that could have convinced me to remain silent during Artie’s inquiry. He asked and…” eyes shown glassy behind fluttering lids and they finally rested on H.G., “… and I said it. I took responsibility.” Her brows shivered up, expectantly, the crease growing deeper. “Are you angry with me?” she whispered.

H.G.’s swallow was audible. Instinctually, she leaned forward in her chair and smoothed Myka’s arms. Her hands progressed soothingly along the shirt’s thin material to create a warmth that penetrated. “Darling, I may be angry, but that is not directed at you. I am angry about the situation as a whole. That you felt no other option than to take on my trials… I don’t ever want that for you. Your happiness means more to me than my own.”

Myka breathed. Her chest rose and fell with a cascade of affection for H.G. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m being like this.”

H.G. smiled. She pinched a lock of hair and dragged it behind an ear to join the rest of its curly counterparts. “I never thought I would meet someone who overthought quite as much as I.”

“I’m not always like this,” insisted Myka. She huffed slightly, but kept up appearances.

H.G. contested with a solitary raise of a brow, the smirk right on its heels.

“You think you know me so well.”

“I claim so, yes. And have remarkable evidence to back up a statement such as that.”

“Sure you do.”

“It is a privilege and I am overjoyed.”

Myka didn’t have to make a thorough study to measure the weight and prove the exact substance in the words. They came with a gravity of faith and untarnished admiration. H.G. loved her. She loved her with her words and her voice, with each brush of hand on Myka’s arm and flicker of warmth in her eyes. Her love came in smiles and snarky one-liners and every “bloody this” and “bloody that.” It came in quiet moments of longing even when they were in each other’s presence. H.G. longed for and loved Myka in any place and at any time. Near or far, together or apart, she would continue to love for as long as there was life in her.

“I do apologize for the delay,” Mrs. Frederic drifted into the sun room, looking quite an unremarkable sight carrying a tray of coffees, milk, sugar, and biscuits. “The coffee handle was problematic for a time, but I managed all right.”

Myka and H.G shared a look that was anything if not conspiratorial. Neither could attest to knowing the goings on of one Irene Frederick, but her penchant for timing was legendary. If she meant to be tardy her entrance was no doubt executed with forethought.

The caretaker sat at the table, swirling a teaspoon of sugar into her coffee. Her head tipped slightly to the side as the silver spoon clinked along the inside of a china cup, making one turn, two, and three before slipping out of the caramel colored brew. Without a word she brought the coffee to her lips which she then pursed to blow and then meet to liquid.

“Well then,” Mrs. Frederic began, placing the cup gently down as if the first sip was a check off her grand master plan. “I would like to start off by declaring my sincere gratitude. You were both instrumental in leading Agent Lattimer to the artifact, and managed to apprehend a very dangerous man in the process. Putting your lives in danger for a cause brought to light not a week ago shows unusual integrity. Not many would believe in what we do here at the Warehouse, even after witnessing its wonder with their own eyes. Your faith in the principles we maintain here have far-reaching outcomes even I cannot comprehend. Your heroism saved the world from a lethal artifact and ensured the safe return of one of our finest field agents. If there is any greater thanks I may award I would find it in my power to do so.”

Myka said, “It was our pleasure to help in any way we could.”

H.G. nodded along with her, though with the understanding that she accepted the mission for entirely different reasons than saving the world.

“I am glad you see it that way. Which comes to my next topic.” Dark, strong hands clasped on the table between her and her cooling coffee. “I would like to offer both of you full-time positions at the Warehouse. Though the process of recruiting civilians is a lengthy one, you two are exceptions. H.G. has been in a position that allowed me to watch over her from a distance, so I am well aware of her abilities. Dr. Bering, your record speaks for itself. Just months from tenure, you have shown longevity and dedication in your field in addition to outstanding skills in deduction and reasoning. And from what I’ve been told, you two made an excellent team in Europe. The Warehouse is in need of this kind of rapport, not to mention a more feminine touch in the field. Our cause has always been for the good of society and is should never be without a bit of diversity.”

“Wow,” gasped Myka, “this is a lot to take in.”

H.G. sighed. “Indeed.”

“You by no means have to decide this minute. But I should warn that if you accept there is no guarantee you will be slated for fieldwork upon instatement. It takes time for new recruits to acclimate themselves to the daily life of being a Warehouse agent, not to mention they must develop a trustworthy bond with their partner before their first mission. It is a process very unlike any profession you can imagine. It will require stamina, conviction, patience, and more than a fair share of confidentiality.”

“Are you sure we are the right people for this?” Myka asked, forehead bunching. “I mean, we only went on one mission. How can you know for sure?”

“Knowing is not an exact science.” Mrs. Frederic smiled. “But if anyone knows for certain it is you. I merely oversee and protect the Warehouse. My opinion shouldn’t matter, however if you wish it I will say how pleasantly surprised I am by your due diligence on the case and how much insight was provided in hunting down the artifact. The three of you, in addition to former FBI Agent Steve Jinks, worked like a well-oiled machine. You worked as a team who trusted and supported one another, and that is exactly what we strive to be here at Warehouse 13.”

Myka disengaged her hand from her coffee and sat back in her chair. She let out a breath and with it, she hoped, her insecurities. The offer was a grand one. It was her dream, really. For the past few years Myka had been unhappy as a professor. She hated the hours, the ungrateful people she worked with and taught, and had no patience for office politics. She would rather see the world, discover new places, and maybe write a book or two on her travels. Realizing how much she wanted these things was appropriate timing for this strange, polite woman was offering the very same.

More than excitement, Myka thirsted for family. It came out of nowhere, but she did find it at the Warehouse. Pete Lattimer, Steve Jinks, Leena and Artie were fast becoming akin to that every day warmth found in close friends and relatives. Since childhood Myka had yearned for a place in the world and people who understood her bookish, Twizzler-crazed ways. It annoyed her to no end when Pete pulled on her hair and made unrecognizable _Star Trek_ jokes about her doctor title, but at the same time she loved that he protected her as only a Tesla-carrying , big brother would. She felt a calm sense of being, like everything was right in the world as long as Steve and Leena were in it. And Artie… that distinct smell of freshly baked cookies and stale books made her heart melt. Simply put, the Warehouse felt like home.

Where Myka mulled for a prolonged time, it only took H.G. less than a moment to decide. She was, honestly, humbled by Mrs. Frederic’s offer. H.G. was aware of her own abilities, her reliability, and though she tested her threshold only recently she could swear to live up to her own personal principles. More importantly, the Englishwoman had a hearty curiosity for puzzles. There was no doubt that H.G. would have thrived as a Warehouse agent, saving lives and grappling for more adventure. She would accept the offer without hesitation if it were not for Christina.

As much as she relished the thrill of living one of her own novels she genuinely liked being a mother. With the self-scheduled hours before and after work she was able to give Christina all the attention a child of her age required. But in order to give that love and attention she must be around. H.G. could not be off on some mission halfway around the world, risking her life for a bloody historical object. As an agent of the Warehouse there was no guarantee she would return safely into the arms of her child. There was no promise to be made that Christina wouldn’t be left childless. If it was a choice between full-time agent or full-time mother there would be no contest.

“Mrs. Frederic,” H.G. voiced with a bout of concern, “I must respectfully decline your offer.”

Brunette curls bounced with Myka’s twisting head. The line between her eyes deepened at the unlikely response.

The caretaker’s brow rose. “This is a monumental decision. You do not wish to think about it?”

“I am thinking of my daughter. And I do not make the decision lightly. Working for the Warehouse is a noble profession that I am sure reaps many benefits to one’s conscience. However, it is a life I cannot lead now. Maybe in another life…”

“Very well,” Mrs. Frederic intoned. She turned to Myka who looked a bit on the edge of her seat and ready to faint from indecision. “I detect from you silence that you would like more time to consider what I have brought to the table?”

Myka nodded wordlessly. She fiddled with the handle of her china cup, twisting it a centimeter clockwise, then a centimeter counterclockwise.

_How on earth am I supposed to decide something like this?_

H.G. was watching closely, longing to reach out if it were not for the presence of Mrs. Frederic. The professor’s indecision was painted so vibrantly across her face it pained H.G. to the depths of her heart. If only it didn’t have to be this way.

_Oh, Myka._

As if struck by some lightning alternative, Myka straightened in her chair and turned to H.G. Before a syllable could be uttered the front door latched open, followed by the quick pattering of feet.

“Mummy?” came the angelic voice.

There was the sound of a paper sack dropping.

“Christina,” Leena’s voice, so kind one could imagine her smiling while speaking, followed with a chuckle, “careful for the eggs!”

“Mummy?! Myka?!”

H.G. had leapt from her chair before Christina even appeared.

“Christina!” she cried, catching the speeding bullet of black hair and fur-lined overcoat in her arms. “My love, oh how I’ve missed you!”

The only response was fragmented weeping.

By the trembling little body it was clear just how overcome with relief the girl was to be in the arms of her mother. Being a child, Christina did not realize the depth of her love nor how much she longed for the focus of that love. It was out of sight, out of mind, really, when H.G. wasn’t around and Christina’s mind was kept occupied thanks to Leena’s baking activities and Artie’s piano lessons. It was her first experience being without a parent, not exactly having been abandoned or forgotten but left behind for a time. With H.G.’s appearance those repressed feelings of yearning, fear, and affection came to the forefront. It was too much for a child of Christina’s age to bear and so it spilled over in tears and the shaking fortitude she tried so hard to avoid. With H.G. mightily embracing her that adult-like manner crumbled to coax out her eight-year-old self, brittle as she was.

It took great strength, but when H.G. finally released her she met the pair of eyes that had fluttered so sweetly the first time eight years ago.

“I saw the cars and I just knew you were back! I knew it!”

“My observant daughter,” H.G. mused with a smile and shake of her head.

“Do I get a hug?”

Before Myka finished her request Christina pried herself from her mother’s arms and wordlessly flew into the professor’s. “Of course you do,” she sobbed unsteadily. Her little fists locked around Myka’s neck so she could press a salt wet face into it.

Myka hadn’t wanted to intrude on the mother/daughter reunion. It was truly a satisfying sight to see H.G. with her daughter. The tearful embrace was a long time coming as being apart was a harrowing experience for both. Myka knew how much they needed this time and didn’t want to be selfish, but damn that because she missed Christina just as much. Since wrapping on the Rosetta Stone case she had experienced a most strange and pervading desire to hold that little bundle of energy in her arms. It shocked Myka deeply how much she missed Christina, and wanting her near again felt so right.

“Your hair is different.”

“It is, isn’t it? Do you like it?”

Christina nodded her serious features. “It quite becomes you.”

Myka’s laugh was as sweet and joyous as when it was met with the child’s.

“Welcome back you two,” Leena sang. She glided into the room as if she were not burdened with three overstuffed bags of groceries. “Christina begged me to leave the grocery store early, citing this was sure to be the day ‘Mummy and Myka’ return.” Leena chuckled and shook her head, dumbfounded. “This one has a sixth sense, I tell you.”

“It’s true!” screeched the intuitive girl. “Perhaps I have superpowers like Miss Leena and Mr. Lattimer!”

“Just don’t be too quick to set off and save the world,” H.G. warned with a stern eye. She smiled and touched the girl’s chin when Christina pouted. “At least not until you turn… thirty-five at the earliest!” she bellowed playfully, snatching the girl up and tickling her sides.

“Mummy, no!” Christina’s petulant whine was more of a giggle as the fingers at her sides sent her into fits of them.

“Forty?”

“Nooo!” she squealed and squirmed, but H.G. was having too much fun to stop. “That is much too old!”

“Eighty-nine, then?”

“I would barely lift a brick at eighty-nine! Tee-hahaha! How am I supposed to save all the princes?!”

Myka was consumed with hearty laughter at that, musing to H.G. with a beaming smile, “You have taught your daughter well.”

“Princesses need saving, too, from time to time,” H.G. held with a wink to the professor. “Remember? Discrimination is for –“

“Discrimination is for dastard cave dwellers.” Christina exemplified with a roll of her eyes. “ _Yes_ , Mummy, I _know_.”

Leena joined in the hardly stifled laughter. “So you guys just got back?”

“We were just speaking with…” Myka turned and gestured to the empty chair and its previous owner’s coffee cup. “Um…” she murmured. Her frown panned around the sun room.

Leena giggled, more than aware of whom the professor spoke of. Knowing the three girls needed this time of joyous reunion, she and the groceries proceeded to the kitchen.

“Oh, I have so much to tell you!” Christina’s hair bounced as she jumped up and down on her feet. Her excitement, clearly, could not be contained. “I’ve been learning to bake and measure ingredients… and I found Mr. Lattimer’s comic books so agreeable to read… and… and the garden is splendid here. Have you seen it? And the butterflies… and… oh! Mr. Artie has shown me scales and with enough practice he believes I can learn to play a _whole song.”_

“That’s wonderful, darling.”

Myka knelt down beside the girls. “Can we hear you play?” She squeezed the girl’s hand encouragingly and immediately felt the spark of excitement pass from Christina to her.

“But I wish to hear of your adventures! Mr. Artie says you went to Egypt. Did you see the pyramids? And the Nile? Were the camels friendly?”

Knowing a chuckle alone would enable the boundless nerves of her daughter, H.G. pressed a palm to the round, rosy cheek. “There’s time, my love.” Her thumb brushed at a late blooming tear of delight as Christina shared in the smile. “All the time in the world.”

_How much time left with dear Myka, though, I haven’t the foggiest._


	15. Chapter 15

Unmistakably, out of all the places, H.G. always ended up in one place. In the mornings, after lunch, before bed, she resided in the bed and breakfast library, a place for the disciplines of study, reading, and writing.

There was nowhere else to go. Due to Artie’s mistrust, the Warehouse was off limits. Leena’s house was spacious enough to fill one’s time. The library in particular promoted a peace H.G. was relieved to fall back on. It carried her to worlds she had visited before and some only imagined. Shelves were lined with fantasy novels, scientific romance, mystery, tales from realism, naturalism, gothic romanticism. There were books on psychology, herbology, anatomy, and (to H.G.’s great delight) theoretical physics.

Upon first visiting the library H.G. noticed the missing books in the history section and smiled at their liberator’s insatiable curiosity. Having spent a great deal of time among these particular sources of literature, she came to ignore the spaces between _The Six Syrian Wars_ and _Hypatia: Mathematician and Martyr_ not to mention the possessor’s whereabouts. There was no point in boding.

After recounting everything she had been doing every minute of the day since they left and after a proper instruction in piano scales, Christina was regaled with H.G.’s and Myka’s adventures. They censored the obvious grown-up situations and encounters that would have given the girl nightmares. And through an unspoken accord, Myka and H.G. decided not to reveal their declaration of love. It was still so fresh in their minds and accepted so recently in their hearts it took some getting used to themselves.

H.G., Christina, and Myka continued to board at the bed and breakfast even though they were not on the services of the Warehouse. Leena graciously granted beds, food, and company while giving them time to decide their affairs.

Myka was spending a lot of time with Christina, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist like H.G. to figure out why. It was a scene that harkened back to a time before the Warehouse when the only crime committed was keeping one’s true identity secret. Much like those times Myka and the newly grateful Christina cooked in the professor’s apartment and sang along off-key to overtures of Verdi, it filled her heart with tenderness seeing the girls together, laughing, holding hands, or reading comics to one another. Myka was not a graphic novel fan, but it was clear from the arm around the girl and the permanent smile on her face that it wasn’t about her derision for the _Iron Shadow_.

It was bittersweet; H.G. knew it from the moment of Myka’s indecision. Myka was spending as much time with Christina before they left her. That or she was attempting to test the waters of a possible future. Myka was not mother material, she knew that and so did H.G. What brought both to pause was the ease with which the professor let the girl into her life, her heart. She was quick to soothe when a plate broke against the floor, more than generous in her smiles, and a solitary but sweet kiss to the forehead before bedtime was carried out without hesitation. Myka may not be a mother but she had it in her to become one. It was realizations like that which took hold of H.G. in a sordid mix of elation and melancholy. Sometimes it was just too much to bear, watching the girls play family, that H.G. flew from their sight to the privacy behind a closed door. If Myka was undecided about her future, H.G. was undecided on whether her tears were of joy or sorrow.

And poor Christina. She had fallen in love with the professor. When Myka and H.G. had returned there was never a time when Christina was not three steps behind the brunette. Idolization was not reserved for wide-eyed adults, but children too. Christina hung on her every word, started imitating her body language, and introduced more Twizzlers into her diet. Most of it was unintentional, a result of imprinting and living in domestic proximity. When it wasn’t, Christina genuinely strove to prove her love to Myka in her piano skills, second grade knowledge of mummies and pyramids, and her keen interest in self-defense (even though H.G. pointed out that it wasn’t of such importance before).

It was a kind of obsession not easily diminished. She was at the age when memory became an immovable thing. Myka’s words, her expressions and displays of affection would be lodged in the girl’s mind as the measures to a new song or the conjugations of a new language would. Christina was a smart girl for her age, so she could comprehend the enormous impact Myka had on her life and possibly that of her mother’s. As much as H.G. wanted to protect her own heart, she feared more for her daughter’s. It would not be easy, tearing the girl away from the only person she ever loved (aside from her own mother). The attachment ran so deep there was no telling how a young heart would cope when the line was severed. Taking her daughter away from grandparents and an errant father was one thing. Taking her away from a woman whom she shared a bond with… it was a decision H.G. hoped Myka would not force her to make.

Where Christina and Myka spent innumerable hours together in the bed and breakfast, out in the garden, and on the streets of Univille, H.G. and Myka kept their distance from one another. H.G. did not wish to make it any more difficult. She would not pressure Myka nor guilt her into the decision. They shied away from displays that would have made things harder, kisses and caresses all through the day and night. Dreams could only sate the want, and even then they woke to an empty bed.

They dreamt themselves into a fever, over satisfying their ghost-like selves in endless flesh, sheets twisted, cries echoing. The declarations spawned from these shadowed and passionate nights remained behind their eyes, in their minds, and ran wild in their sleep. It was why their physical displays of emotion could be restrained, but their eye contact could not. Across a room, the seconds while passing one another in the hall, their love was spoken through green and brown windows. One dive into those dark pools was all it took to grasp the idea of just what impulses were fulfilled in those fantasies.

H.G. had bided as along as she could while Myka still deliberated over Mrs. Frederic’s offer. She insisted on waiting because she needed an answer more than Mrs. Frederic or even Myka herself did. She needed to know where home was for Myka before she and Christina left for Chicago. Not knowing was torture, then again, hearing one choice over the other could be the death of her. H.G. could not say what would happen to their friendship if Myka chose the Warehouse. She could not say any more than she could of their love for one another. The future was unwritten, and, going by experience, H.G. feared it would be one marked by obstacles no matter what Myka chose.

When Myka’s decision finally came it was five days after their return from Egypt. It arrived on a beautiful morning filled with butterflies, rays of sunshine, and the smell of a fully stocked library. In the midst of processing Stefan Zweig’s morose frustrations with a generation, H.G. had been graced by a beautiful interruption, unprepared for its outcome.

After H.G. was granted an answer, the day transformed from fresh opportunity to grey devastation. Hope turned to dread and the scent of books became ash. The beauty in expectation slipped through her fingers as russet curls did between the same.

Even the kiss that came with the verdict did nothing to satisfy her. Myka’s lips which had become those past few days a dream of a treasure to be caressed diminished to superfluous apparition. In hindsight, Myka’s kiss was passionate and carried with it every measure of love she felt for the Englishwoman. She communicated every extent of it the best she knew how, in hands stuffed with an Oxford blue blouse, barely uttered whimpers, and heavenly seconds for record.

However, in much a catatonic state H.G. was rendered unresponsive to the advance. Mentally and physically she could not process the mouth on hers or the tongue stroking eagerly to forgive her… perhaps even to change her mind. H.G. was taken, not by arousal but by meltdown, not fully grasped and suspended like a guillotine before the plunge.

Myka’s explanation was heartfelt. She was not crude or uncaring. H.G. deserved the truth, deprived of a coddling hands or stillborn promises. Myka couldn’t go back to Chicago. She couldn’t be stifled by a life that gave her nothing in return. It would have been different, certainly, with H.G. and Christina by her side; however the void would always remain. She would have happiness and family, but there would still be job dissatisfaction and constant wonder about that life she could have had at the Warehouse. Myka loved H.G. She loved Christina. But it would never be enough. Somehow, H.G. always had a niggling fear that she and her daughter were not be made of the stuff that filled voids.

“You know I want to come with you.”

H.G. nodded, busying her hands by patting down the professor’s shirt color. Myka didn’t have to explain further. The raging storm in her eyes said enough.

“You know…” Myka’s chin ducked to search for it, “… I…” she looked up with fresh tears in her eyes and cocked her head, locking her lips together because she just _couldn’t_.

H.G. nodded again. It was all she could muster.

Myka shared the motion with a quick dip of her head. She breathed out of her smile, an awkward, measly thing. “Okay,” she settled. It was unsteady and certainly _not_ okay.

“Christina and I should be on our way. I wouldn’t want her to miss any more school than necessary.”

The mention of the little girl brought Myka’s shoulders to sag. Her features ran down, melting into a devastating frown. “She must miss her friends,” Myka said. “And her routine. Kids can be attached to those things.” Her laugh was wobbly and awkward.

H.G.’s grunt was uncertain, yet it came with as much agreement as could be made. Myka did not know the extent of attachments any more than she knew how children operated. Being educated of someone’s ‘experience’ in a succinct nutshell caused H.G. to bristle.

“I should really get along,” the Englishwoman declared. She stood straighter, her gaze hardened as concrete as her resolve. “Must not intrude any further on Leena’s hospitality.”

She swept past Myka without a glance or a goodbye. With a swift exit, the heels of her boots clomped up the stairway and a door closed.

Her mouth was still parted open as if it would speak. Myka’s eyes were wide and glassy as she froze, staring at the place her love had vacated.

The bed and breakfast library lost a fine patron indeed, though not as much as Myka had just lost.

* * *

“You’ll call, right?” Christina’s brown eyes pleaded. “Promise?”

“Would you like that?”

“Oh, yes!”

Myka broke out into a wide smile. “Then I promise.”

“And you’ll call Mummy?”

“I’m sure you _both_ will hear from me.”

“Good. I will expect nothing less.”

“Bossy thing,” Myka sassed, her index finger brushing affectionately against the girl’s cheek.

Kneeling down in the foyer, she suddenly felt something pierce past her ribs to the source. She shivered, breathing in unsteadily like hyperventilation was just around the corner. Wetness teased the corners of her eyes. Refusing to blink, Myka cleared her throat. The little girl’s coat bunched in a pair of fists which clenched and unclenched.

“Bundle up. It’s getting cold out there.” Her fingers grappled once, twice, three times until they finally pinched the zipper and dragged it up, clicking as it went. “Be good in school. Listen to your mom.” Myka ducked down so her voice would not carry. “And don’t indulge her story time so often. Read as many _Iron Shadow_ issues as you please.”

If the giggle said anything it was that Christina sure liked that. It called for such disobedience and unrestrained independence and Myka just understood her so well, more than any adult even tried. Looking as small as a turtle in its shell, Christina beamed within her parka. Not one for warnings, the girl ambushed Myka with a hug. She practically climbed the professor like a tree frog, locking anything with limbs around the startled figure, nuzzling into russet curls, and plastering their cheeks together.

Myka gasped. The sob which was only a miniscule syllable was thankfully stifled into the fur lining of the parka, but she felt it vibrate through her very bones. The hug was welcomed and returned. Her nails dug into the back of Christina’s coat and Myka hoped (fleetingly) that she wasn’t hurting the poor thing. She refused to meet H.G.’s watchful gaze like she refused to move her welling eyes.

Compared to the aftermath of Myka’s verdict, H.G. had looked remarkably put together. Where she was borderline unresponsive the night before, the following morning marked a change. Her smiles came easier and without tears. Patience was exercised in packing, saying goodbye, though if she had her way she would have skipped off in the middle of the night. H.G. hated goodbyes but she couldn’t do that to her daughter. Christina deserved closure, and, she supposed, so did Myka.

After a lovely breakfast of bacon and eggs with the bed and breakfast tenants (sans Artie) Myka was starting to think H.G.’s pleasantness were a front. The shadows under her eyes and the way her heels dragged a centimeter longer than typical… H.G. was weary. She wanted to go back home and return to tedious life in Chicago. She wanted to be a single mother, work the livelong day, and eat tiramisu whenever she damned well pleased. She wanted to forget.

The attitude that everything ran a-okay was a service to Christina and, perhaps, to Myka. As the professor had stolen looks across the table she was beginning to resent the attitude. It was all fine and well to act civil, like everything in the world was bloody famous because that is what an eight-year-old child wanted to hear and that’s how they see it, through rose-colored glasses. But as an adult, Myka knew better. The world was not a flawless sphere peopled with rich minds and kind hearts. It was ugly and domineering and sometimes turned your heart black. Sitting at a circular table of friends and loved ones that’s what Myka wanted; turmoil. Strike her fists on the table, throw a fork through the window, scream and shout, beg for a reaction, any reaction that would make her feel sorry for choosing the Warehouse over… what? Home? Love? What were those things if not constructs of the mind?

She had settled for scrambled eggs over answers. The stolen looks were not returned and Myka was left to wonder and to simmer in a potage of falsity.

The farewells were quick. Pete had to get Steve to the Warehouse for his ‘Initiation ceremony.’ No one really knew what it would entail, save for Pete’s uncontrollable snickering and the mention of something called a ‘Gooery.’ Leena gave the departing girls a hug and a kiss on the cheek before following after the other agents as Steve’s support system.

Mrs. Frederic was kind enough to lend her personal chauffer who would drive the mother and daughter to the airport. Christina was already out the door and settling in her seat when Myka faced the inevitable.

_How do I say goodbye to the only person I’ve ever allowed myself to love?_

“I won’t call you unless you want me to.” Myka shifted uncomfortably, her hands were planted to her hips, thumbs hooked into blue jeans.

“I was hoping you would.”

It shocked like 1,000 volts of electric pressure – the anticipation in her voice, the swift certainty of _wanting_ someone, not anyone, to call on her. It jerked Myka’s chin up and caused her to blink in confusion.

“There’s this place,” H.G. started, swallowing hard but fixing her eyes on the professor, “in Galicia, Spain. There’s a beautiful cottage, fireplace, fully-stocked kitchen and all. That is…” she frowned and cleared her throat, “there are other tourist sites. Many… buildings of sorts, lovely Atlantic coast, the country side…” She paused, thinking better of her rambling and settled for a conclusion just to put herself out of her misery and Myka’s wide-eyed astonishment. As clearly as her voice was capable, H.G. hoped and finished, “Perhaps I will show you one day.” Though it wasn’t planned, her head tipped gently to the side and her mouth provoked into a smirk.

Myka breathed, “Oh?” No promises could be made.

The Englishwoman’s answer came in the form of a kiss on the back of the professor’s hand. Soft, most witty lips parted to breathe on the hairs of a limp hand. That was before they caressed for a matter of seconds. The gesture stole the air from the room, leaving its inhabitants nearly gasping for oxygen.

“Don’t ever change, Myka Bering.”

_Don’t let the Warehouse change you._

The Wells’ departed. The end was almost like the final scene in a play, curtains closing but no applause. Just… silence. The leaving was like a prolonged tearing of the heart; one half deserting the other. Comprehension was a guillotine, its angled blade released for a lethal nosedive. But unlike the swift 18th century execution device, leaving Myka was anything but humane.

H.G. didn’t know. She didn’t see it, but her inventive mind imagined the tires kicking up gravel in the car’s wake, the quaint Victorian bed and breakfast shrinking in the distance, and a shadow behind a screen door. A set of eyes, steely, green, and ardent eyes that would be the subject of endless love watched and bled.

H.G. didn’t know. She didn’t see it. But that didn’t mean it never happened.

Myka’s shoulder met the doorframe and nearly the entirety of her weight with it. When the vehicle disappeared from view, she turned and raced up the stairs. Myka retreated to one of the bedrooms, _her_ bedroom now, and instead of collapsing on the bed like anticipated she sat properly on its edge. Her eyes searched and found a spot on the vacant walls. She stared, and she stared. She sat and stared like that as the minutes ticked by.

After a while of stillness, the corner of her eye caught a glint. A borrowed copy of _Candida_ now under the ownership of one Dr. Bering rested on the bedside dresser looking much at home. Its beaten corners and coffee colored pages stuck out like a sore thumb, but it was a sight for Myka’s sore eyes. What glinted atop the book seized a gasp.

It was without a note, but Myka understood. The damn woman knew she would. No message save for a whisper. The whisper came from a growing distance, but it reached her like a touch of lips to her ear.

_Keep it. You can owe me._

The cry pierced through the stillness like the connotation of a locket penetrated behind her ribcage. She could not return it any more than she could return her love.

Clutching the thing in her palm until its corners pierced her skin, Myka fell back in sobbing devastation. The bed broke her fall yet she didn’t feel it. All she felt was the biggest mistake of her life.


	16. Chapter 16

_I finally found someone who knocks me off my feet_  
_I finally found the one who makes me feel complete_  
_It started over coffee, we started out as friends_  
_It's funny how from simple things, the best things begin._  
Barbra Streisand and Bryan Adams

* * *

“You catalogued the IRS Quartum according to the four periods: the Age of Emperors, the Age of Princes, the Early Habsburg, and Dissolution. This is a reconstitution of the entire section.” Artie flipped back and forth through the thickly compiled proposal, rubbing his chin in the process. He muttered to himself as much as to his new protégée, “And structured at that. If only all my agents were as diligent!” He finished with a growl and threw the catalog book down as if it was too good to be true.

Myka smiled, taking the compliment. She enjoyed impressing the man. Despite the snapping jowls and ‘shoo fly’ demeanor Artie had a subtle way of showing his appreciation. There was a kind man beneath those untamed brows, and Myka was fond of that man. He pushed her to excel, go beyond the pale of normal academic research. In some ways it was like pushing a novice swimmer into deep, arctic chill waters. Artie did not coddle Myka, nor offer refreshment and a warm blanket. He gave orders and entrusted her to use her own judgment. It was more than Myka could ask for, so letting this new mentor down was not an option. Impressing her new boss was fast becoming a bright aspect of her days at the Warehouse.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Myka mumbled, suddenly aware that restructuring an entire section of the Warehouse was the very definition of stepping out of line.

“Mind?” Artie echoed, fixating on her from over his spectacles and sliding them up on his nose when need be. “Whatever makes my job easier is more like it. Keeps me away from antacids and Pete’s whining about not finding something.”

Surrounded by piles of books, papers, and index cards she had spent those past two days pouring over, the former professor shifted on her chair. “I know someone who could condense all these files using a more advanced system. Not that the current one is lacking in efficiency,” Myka added carefully. “She’s a real tech wizard.”

Artie snorted. “Is she expensive?”

“She’s a student.”

“So cheap as they come,” he settled. His jaw set, then, and his voice lowered gravely. “One thing you have to understand, Myka, is that we do not employ outside help. No consultants, technicians, or specialists.”

“But –“

“You and H.G. Wells were exceptions.” A portly finger rose in warning. “ _Special_ exceptions approved by the Regents themselves. Secrecy is of utmost importance, as you learned about in your orientation. You don’t let the Commander and Chief access to this facility much less the pizza delivery guy as Pete has been tirelessly advocating for.”

Myka nodded firmly. “Understood.”

“Good.”

The locket hung around her neck and rested on her warm skin. As all the times it hid safety within her pocket she would finger it in her hand. There were moments when Myka would pause in the middle of her day, looking around with a frown on her face as if she misplaced something. In those moments the locket brought her a measure of peace, though not to the extent its owner would promote.

She had not worn it before, believing it to be an insult to its meaning between a mother and daughter. Given that the sacred treasure was left behind with clear intent, Myka resolved to wear it as it was meant to be worn. The golden locket lay close to her heart and its pictures of two very well loved individuals were always kept warm and remembered.

“Artie, I’ve been meaning to ask you…” Myka played with the corner of a page before relinquishing hold. She folded her arms on the table, the curiosity growing in the lines around her narrowed eyes. “How did Mrs. Frederic and the Regents take me on so quickly for the Rosetta Stone case? You had been watching over Helena for years, so her abilities were not in question. The whole purpose of Warehouse 13 is to keep artifacts from the world, yet I was brought into the fold with little surveillance or background checks. I mean, up until that night in Chicago at the park Mrs. Frederic hadn’t met me.”

Arthur grew still. His shoulders sagged with the sigh, much as if shedding weighty disclosure. He tipped his head in Myka’s direction and raised brow. “Your involvement in the Warehouse was no coincidence. Neither was meeting Mrs. Frederic, though the timing was sooner than anticipated.” He settled in the chair next to Myka, close but far enough to give her room and time to process. “Like Miss Wells, you were watched over by the Regents. Myka…” Arthur exhaled a grunt, shaking his head, “you were selected to become a Warehouse agent long before you met Mrs. Frederic.”

Myka’s mouth hung open. No words came. All she could do was search Arthur’s eyes for certainty.

“There was no doubt about your qualifications. The Regents voted unanimously to recruit you. I was instructed to find you in Chicago and encourage you to South Dakota. Once here, it was a simple matter of giving a tour before I formerly offered you the position. But life is full of surprises,” he conceded, absently patting his hand on the table, “and the world is sometimes smaller than we’d like to think.”

Myka nodded. Everyone was at the right place at the right time that night. It was kismet. Mrs. Frederic, Myka, Helena…

“Was she considered for the Warehouse as well?”

“No,” he replied with finality, but the dismay on Myka’s face spurred him to explain. “We do not normally hire those with family. Like all top-secret government jobs, personal ties are a distraction. Lack of attachments is by no means a precondition, but it certainly is a factor in the way we assess potentials.”

“But everyone who works here has family,” argued Myka. “And I’ve seen how Pete looks up to you even though you both grate on each other’s nerves. He sees you as a father, and I’m sure I wouldn’t be wrong in saying you see him as a son.”

“While I will admit our agents will develop partnerships here at the Warehouse, they are merely attachments built in the field. It is based on a mutual faith essential to fulfilling our purpose. I know Agent Lattimer has my back just like he knows I have his. That is trust. Children just make things complicated.”

“That is even more reason to consider individuals with children. They realize exactly who they are fighting for and protecting from artifacts.”

“I’m sorry, but H.G. was never a candidate. Her involvement in the Rosetta case was strictly due to her association with Lewis Web.”

Arthur felt a pang at how the color drained from Myka’s face whenever her friend was mentioned. Ever since H.G. and Christina left the former professor had actively avoided mentioning their names.

“I will admit,” he went on, his jaw tightening, “that after recent events H.G. had come to surprise the Regents. You know of Mrs. Frederic’s offer. What is inside someone’s files is one thing, but actions displayed in the field is another. H.G. had proven her courage and intuition in the thick of danger and in highly stressful, bewildering situations. She would have been a welcome addition to the Warehouse team,” he bowed his head and granted resentfully, “if she had not turned it down.”

Myka stared at him hard and silent, sucking her lip absently. “I see.”

Some moments after the discussion came to a stunted close she stood and walked out the office to the balcony. Her one hand ran along the railing until it grasped. She felt the cold metal as her other hand did the same. She inhaled the Warehouse. She inhaled the Painite walls, the concrete floor, the stale artifacts… but the strangest thing caused her eyes to flutter open and pierce through the distance. It was so strange because in that 100 years old structure she smelled…

_Apples?_

Whether it was apples, oranges, pears, or Pete’s new cologne, Myka breathed in the scent. Her throat hummed softly and she smiled. Myka liked it there. Who would ever pass up such an opportunity of endless wonder? The Warehouse was rich with history just waiting to be explored. Myka would venture to guess it would take her more than one lifetime to soak up all the mystifying knowledge the place offered. And it was all hers for the taking. Time was stretched out before her like a runway, going the entire distance of the Warehouse which was probably as endless as its custodian claimed it to be.

God, it was simply exciting to think about. Myka’s blood ran fast and electric at the thrill of her new job. She wondered if agents before her had been as giddy as she about fieldwork, hunting the missing pieces of history, and salvaging the most beautiful, most dangerous things spawned into their world. She wondered if they had to make hard decisions as she had, if they were forced to choose between two loves. Were they as conflicted as she was then? Did they feel happiness and guilt simultaneously as they hung on that railing and gazed out at the expanse?

Myka sighed. Her chin dropped to her chest. The balcony may become a place of clarity. Her thumbs caressed the railing and she leaned back to stretch before folding her arms atop it and settling her chin down. This was a place of harmony and enlightenment. She would have to remember that given Pete’s warnings. Myka would call herself a stable individual, sound of mind and physically fit. She couldn’t imagine coming to the end that most agents of the Warehouse encountered. To turn evil, go insane, or pass before her time… those were not options. They were threats, and Myka would not allow herself to be threatened, blackmailed, or seduced. People cared about her, loved her. The professor – the agent – had to keep herself good, sane, and living for those that believed in her.

Though serving as an escape from tedious tasks of inventory and cataloging, the balcony did not offer complete clarity until days later. Myka was in her usual stance slunk over the railing with all the laziness of an undergrad but with the worry lines of a woman who had seen the unimaginable.

The smell of apples remained but it was no longer a mystery she wished to solve.

She finally turned her back on the grand landscape of snagged history.

“Finished brooding on your balcony?”

“Wha… huh?” Myka halted her stride into Artie’s office. “How did you…?”

Artie rocked back on his chair, pen tapping at his chin as he continued to stare at a file in his grasp. “In all my years of being custodian here I have never had an agent as cogitative as you. You spend more time out there than you do in my office or down on the Warehouse floor.” He pointed the end of his pen towards the slated window, stating plainly, “And I can see you.”

“Oh.” Myka frowned. She touched the hairs on a neck that certainly blushed.

“I won’t tell. Forget I even know. Like Agent Lattimer doesn’t know I know about his super-secret ‘Pete Cave.’”

Myka’s chuckle sustained at the presence of the man’s small smile. Arthur rarely displayed humor, but when he did it warred with the bristles on his face which made it all the more genuine.

“Now that we’re on the subject and considering the determined look on your face when you entered my office did your special place offer any pertinent insight?”

The concern in his voice knocked down a few bricks in her wall while making her feel warm and safe at the same time. If only her father had made her feel half that much.

“I’ve been thinking about what you told me the other day, that my connection with the Warehouse was fated.” Myka had been talking to the floor but eventually she had the strength to face him. “Artie, I don’t normally think that way. I used to believe we have full control over our choices and their results. A practical person like me… it is the only thing I _could_ believe. But then I saw this place and witnessed with my own eyes the power of a calling.”

Arthur shrugged. “Destiny and free will may have separate meanings but one cannot exist without the other. The power to choose is an extension of purpose. And one’s purpose cannot exist without a choice to be made.”

Though she was nodding, Myka was wrapped up in her current purpose. “I made a decision not long ago,” she began slowly, hands clasped but antsy, “and I made it based on just one of two predestined futures I fully believed in. The Warehouse is… it’s like home. I feel accepted here. Yet I can’t help but think that other events in my life may not have been coincidence.” Her eyes fell closed. Her brunette curls swung with her shaking head, straining for a simpler meaning. “There must have been some reason, some... occurrence in nature that led me to Helena just as I was led to this place.” Myka gave a short laugh and gestured around her. She looked around in awe. “This wonderful place.”

“You have doubts.”

“Didn’t you?” Myka asked hopefully. “When you first started working here?”

“My situation was vastly different from yours. It is a story that I cannot tell.” He sighed. “Pete became an agent because he was born into it. Same goes for Leena. Our pasts before the Warehouse don’t matter. It’s still there for me. I think about it from time to time, but it does not define what I do in the present. Or at least I try to not let it affect my work.” He cocked his head almost sympathetically. “We all have doubts, Myka. We all think about the roads we should have taken and where we would be if we didn’t pick the secret life of artifact retrieval. Pete and Leena are here because they chose to be, not because it was fate. They _still_ choose to be here. But that’s them, and I am me. You are you.”

A silence settled over the office. Arthur tried not to hope for one outcome over the other. Myka tried to weigh one over the other and with considerable struggle.

“I can’t. Artie. I… just can’t.”

He studied her for a moment, wondering what it would have been like to have an agent that actually followed the rules, one who had read the manual, memorized it and frequently quoted from it. He wondered if she would have been groomed to take his place. Of course she would. She was Myka. He wondered if they would have become close, like friends, like family. Would he, when the time came, have treated her, loved her, as a daughter? Yes, he was sure of it.

Arthur gave a small smile and nodded his understanding. “I think I know that.”

Myka’s head fell to the side. She felt the warmth filling eyes that smiled back. She chuckled a bit because he was doing that thoughtful, gentle thing he tried so hard to disguise. And if he was accused of being that kind he would have disputed it gruffly, which made him all the more amusing.

“Thank you, Artie.”

His double-take wasn’t subtle, mouth agape, eyes softening to the impossible, perhaps because he wasn’t the type that received such honest gratitude, but he covered it up with a grunt. He shooed her away with flapping hands before going back to his work.

She had only been there a week, but Myka knew that was his way of saying, “You’re welcome.”

* * *

Myka was packed that same day and prepared for her flight. Her belongings had not yet been shipped from Chicago so there wasn’t much to shove in her suitcase. She would leave the bed and breakfast with the same amount she arrived with. Clothes and the supplies, that was. There was no substitute for the new experiences she would take with her: the ebbing thrill of adventure, the friendships, the memories.

She had said her goodbyes to Steve Jinks and Leena. Steve shook her hand with about the same professionalism as when she first returned it, however with the fresh addition of a smile and the wish to keep in touch. Leena did not shy from a hug. In fact, she initiated it with gusto, pulling Myka in and surrounding her in a memorable scent of tea and baked cookies. She even sent her off with a packed lunch which Myka was thankful for.

Pete was a different matter. She had left him for last not because of his predicted teasing but because goodbye would be a challenge. Despite the short time they had known each other, the man was like the brother she never had. She hoped he wouldn’t be angry. She hoped he would understand. Though some would argue the contrary, Pete had it in him to understand the decisions people made and why they made them. He was smart, Myka granted, in his own Pete way, and she wished she could see him grow and evolve and prove the critics wrong. More than anything she hoped they would keep in touch because she didn’t think she could go a week without hearing him talk about the newest episode of _Revenge_ (with a mouthful of potato chips, of course). Maybe Steve could help out as Pete loved to torture the guy into watching it with him.

When the time came they were standing across from each other as if preparing for a duel. They mirrored one another, arms hanging at their sides, feet shoulder-width apart, and chins tucked in a serious bow. Her bags lay at her feet in the foyer of Leena’s. She was ready to go, but had one last thing to do.

“Well, I guess this is it.”

“Looks like,” Pete agreed. His hands shifted to his hips. He shuffled his feet.

Her mouth tightened into a grin. She took in the interior of the bed and breakfast for the last time. The staircase, the hall to the library, the entryway to the deliciously smelling kitchen, and double doors to the sun room… it all had been a welcome, homey place. Myka was lucky to have lived there for as short a time as it lasted.

“So yeah,” Pete mumbled.

He grimaced a bit, grasping for an idea for how to say goodbye to a girl like Myka. Though their personalities clashed, he and the newbie had been great partners. At least, that was how it seemed to him. It took him a while to warm up to the snooty professor, to get her to laugh at his jokes, and to craft some of her own. He liked her. He cared about her. Despite knowing where her heart truly lied Pete didn’t want to let her go. He grimaced and stumbled because he knew this might be the hardest thing he’s ever had to do – besides keeping himself alive on missions.

“I’m happy, Pete.”

Myka’s assurance was unwavering. Pete had been right about H.G. The Englishwoman had meant more to her than she let on. If it didn’t occur to her Pete would have probably resorted to some childish antic where the two women found themselves trapped alone in some crypt or cellar or locked room in the bed and breakfast with nothing but their love and their hope for _more_.

“I’m happy,” she repeated. “Or I will be in a few hours.”

Pete Lattimer, muscular, cocky agent of the Warehouse ducked his head and laughed softly, nervously. Myka was not normally a touchy-feely kind of person. She saw the scared little boy who was always left behind and couldn’t help herself.

“Hey now! Watch the merchandise.” Pete forced himself to smile into the woman’s diving hug, knowing that this was truly goodbye.

“Sorry,” Myka mumbled into his shoulder and stiffened.

But he held on and refused to let her shy away. They hugged in their own awkward, nervous, honest way that friends and former partners in artifact snagging hugged. She gripped his shoulders as he cradled her in return. A grin spread across her face as she predicted him letting her go in a few seconds with a masculine yet tear-filled wave. Myka closed her eyes, safe and sound, and sighed.

Myka Bering loved the Warehouse and the people in it. She would never forget the good times they all shared. But the affection she felt for a building and the agents it employed was not similar to what was felt for the Wells’. She yearned for H.G. and Christina like she couldn’t Pete, Leena, Steve, or even Artie. She fell so deeply in love with Helena and desperately wanted to fall further. She wanted to explore those depths, and that could only be done with Helena.

It was a fact of life – Myka’s life – that she could not live without Helena. Try as she did, her heart could no longer be detached from its counterpart. For maybe once in her life, Myka was sure of something: she had a locket to return and this new, exciting love that filled the spaces too.

Pete held on to Myka with a chin on her shoulder. “Go get her.”

And she did.

* * *

In the final days before saying goodbye to the Warehouse, even before her decision had been made, Myka had dreams. She missed Helena and Christina. She woke up from the usual dreams, but soon they began to feature more than kisses. She dreamt of their life, raising Christina and growing old together. It was so emotional and arresting that she woke up in sobs. With a hand clamped over her mouth she trembled and cried and… Would she forget them? Would they forget her? Might they ever see one another again? Those were the questions that plagued her in the last days living in the bed and breakfast.

One night Myka dreamt of the cabin in Spain. Helena took her there as promised and showed her the countryside. They talked and they cooked. They sat by the fireside and read to one another. Before the dawn broke they had already made adequate use of the master bedroom. Myka dreamt of making love to Helena and it was so blissful her soul expanded and merged with her love. They dove for each other, exploring depths only dreamt of until they ached deliciously. She felt so light, like her soul could float up and away and reunite with its other half in Chicago.

And that was what did it. Goddamn Chicago. With that single word, the image of a grand cityscape, Myka woke up with the haunting reality: Helena never took her to the cottage. They didn’t hold hands as they walked through the nearest village. The kitchen wasn’t in danger of getting burnt down from the Englishwoman’s smug talent of flambéing. And they never consummated their feelings through fleshly delights. Myka had never thought of being with a woman in that way. If she was honest with herself, she had never experienced those things with a man. The ways in which she shared herself with Helena in the dream world was… incomparable. The woman was unique and beautiful, and such a woman as that needed unique attention.

It brought Myka’s stomach plummeting. She almost never made it out of bed that morning, the day she said goodbye to Arthur Nielsen. Even Pete asked after her when she trudged in for breakfast at a whopping two hours following the latest B&B riser.

But that had been several days ago.

Myka withdrew her hands from her jacket pockets and stopped at the metal fence. Her fingers curled through the holes and hung on as she contemplated turning back. No, Myka Bering had quit turning her back on the people she loved.

Just that morning she called Pete, asking how he was and whether he already had his second breakfast. He sounded surprised to hear from her so soon, but expressed his enthusiasm once he swallowed his banana (or as much as his standards would allow). Myka had apparently called at just the right time because everyone was sitting for a late breakfast at the bed and breakfast. She could still feel the elated jump her heart gave when she heard the voices of Leena, Steve, and Artie over the speaker.

Fingers unfurling around the fence, Myka passed through like an early fall breeze. The park was busied with the usual humdrum: dogs and Frisbee throwing owners, a teenage football game, and children giggling on the playground equipment.

The anticipation brought a smile to Myka and something odd occurred to her. For as hard as she had fallen in love, she and H.G. hadn’t known one another for that long. They shared but a few months together in monotonous Chicago and then two weeks at a bed and breakfast. At that point they thought they had learned everything there was to know about each other. Then came London, France, and Egypt where adventure bred unexpected dangers. And lastly, the turn of one historical certainty that led to a kiss so long anticipated it would seem inevitable.

Myka hadn’t known H.G. long before she’d been swept up in danger, intrigue, and all manner of secrets. But if it weren’t for any of that she wouldn’t be standing where she was now, fully aware of what she wanted and how to keep it.

A mother and her daughter sat together under a large oak tree. The breeze tipped the ends of long, black hair just as its owner fought to bring it behind an ear. Her frustration was apparent, yet the girl by her side eased the worst of it. The woman surrendered a chuckle as her daughter read from the colorful pamphlet and used grand voices and gestures taught to her by a rabid _Iron Shadow_ fanboy. The two looked happy – on the outside.

Myka felt more than heard the animated voices as they carried on the wind. There would be more than one void being filled that day, she thought.

Myka walked through the park, anxious to join the mother and daughter sitting under the oak tree, waiting as if they had always been waiting for her.


End file.
